


The World is a Match for Us

by bacchusofficial



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Cosette and Enjolras are twins, Javert is Grantaire's uncle, Letters, M/M, Muggle/Wizard Relations, Multi, Slow Burn, Social Justice, Trans Male Character, magic shenanigans
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-06
Updated: 2018-10-21
Packaged: 2018-11-09 15:08:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 38,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11107116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bacchusofficial/pseuds/bacchusofficial
Summary: “You’re going to go live with your uncle in Paris for a while, love,” Grantaire’s mother said.“But—why?”At this, Uncle Javert cleared his throat, and gestured at the couch.“Grantaire,” he said. “It’s time for us to have a long talk.”After Grantaire learns he's a wizard, his life, unsurprisingly, undergoes a lot of changes, but none big enough to stop him from keeping in touch with his childhood best friend. Over the years, Grantaire comes to find that nothing ever really changes. Things just get a whole lot bigger.





	1. 1992. (aka, young Grantaire learns some new truths)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey everyone! so, a couple things:
> 
> 1\. this chapter's kind of a prologue. future parts will be a little different.  
> 2\. also, enjolras is transgender. in chap. 1 he's pre-transition, so he's referred to as she/her and as angéle (a name i stole from m_hart). all this ends literally in the next chapter.  
> 3\. i am also a trans man. just sayin' cause i feel like it matters when writing things like this.
> 
> anyway, that's all! hope you guys like it! i'm certainly having a great time writing it.

 It was raining when Grantaire’s neighbors moved in across the street.

Their house was almost the same as Grantaire’s: red brick (though a stranger might not know for all the ivy), with fading white paint on the shutters. The rain made the houses look even more dreary, especially from where Grantaire watched through his bedroom window.

As he watched the big man (enormous, really—maybe he was a pro wrestler) take boxes up to his porch, Grantaire couldn’t help but wonder how all those boxes fit in that little yellow car. It seemed a stretch for even just the man to fit, and it hadn’t been just him; two blonde girls about Grantaire’s age (nine, maybe ten) waited on the porch of their new home.

One of the girls wore a white lacy dress and had a doll tucked neatly under her arm. Grantaire could see her clean red shoes even from this distance. The other girl wore a red sweater and pair of worn bluejean overalls, and had her arms crossed. Unlike her sister, she wore no shoes, but both girls had long, white-gold hair that seemed to shine—even in the rain, even through Grantaire’s dirty window.

The man finished unloading the last of the boxes and shut the car door. He looked up at Grantaire’s window, smiled, and waved, before leading his girls into their new home.

Grantaire was fascinated.

 

The sky didn’t clear for another three days, and during that time Grantaire only saw the man twice, and the girls not at all—though he thought he caught an occasional glimpse of white-gold from an upstairs window.

When things finally did dry up that Sunday, Grantaire donned his time-worn sneakers and trudged out into the muddy yard.

His bike was propped against the side of his house, faithfully awaiting its friend. Grantaire collected it and set out through the wet streets. It was barely eight—his parents wouldn’t be up for another hour yet. Usually, Grantaire would be getting ready for school, but Summer had different rules.

He’d made three laps around the neighborhood, and on his third time passing his house he saw one of the girls sitting in her yard.

She was wearing a yellow Sunday dress. It was the one who’d worn the overalls when they’d first moved in. Grantaire wasn’t sure how he could tell. It had something to do with how uncomfortable she looked, sitting in the wet grass, frowning and fiddling with her long braid, plucking at her dress.

Grantaire didn’t realize he was staring until he ran into her mailbox.

His bike fell to the pavement with a crash, and Grantaire fell on his knees and elbow with a yell. He could already feel the scrapes and bruises forming—and his bike! Oh, God, he was pretty sure the wheel wasn’t supposed to look like that… His parents were going to kill him.

The girl watched with great amusement as Grantaire scrambled to his feet, dusting himself off and turning red.

“Um,” he said. “Um…”

“Your weird broomstick is broken,” observed the girl.

Grantaire blinked. “My what?”

She gestured at his bike. “That thing you were riding.”

“My _bike?”_

“Sure. Whatever it is. It’s broken. And your elbow’s all scraped up.”

“Well, I _know_ that!” said Grantaire, cheeks hot more with shame than anger. He scrubbed his face, looking at the tragedy of his broken bike.

The girl was unconcerned. “Just ask your papa to fix it.”

Grantaire shook his head vehemently.

“Why not?”

Grantaire didn’t reply, just stared miserably at his bike.

“My papa could fix it for you,” the girl offered, flippantly. Grantaire shook his head again. It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate the offer, it was just that he couldn’t imagine a world where he would survive that sort of interaction with the giant man this girl called papa.

Then again, Grantaire couldn’t imagine a world where he would survive the interaction he was soon to have with the regular-sized man _he_ called Dad, either.

In anguish, Grantaire laid a pudgy, stubby-fingered hand on the wheel of his bike; a last farewell to his old friend.

And something remarkable happened.

As he watched, the broken bike wheel moved beneath his hand; dislocated spokes joined together again, the bent axel returned to its proper position—even the football stickers he’d stuck to the wheel’s rim dusted themselves off, repaired their torn edges.

The bike had fixed itself.

(Grantaire had fixed the bike?)

He stared, open-mouthed, heart pounding.

Beside him, the girl gasped. Grantaire’s gaze shot to her, hoping she’d seen it, too, hoping he wasn’t going crazy. He expected shock, disbelief, twin feelings to his own.

But the girl was not in awe. She was grinning, ear to ear (Grantaire thought, in passing, that it was perhaps the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen, despite the gap in her teeth), and she started spouting out words at lightspeed, words Grantaire couldn’t quite catch and words like,

“You’re a wizard! Wow! Why didn’t you say something? I’m a wizard, too!”

Grantaire, of course, knew what wizards were—after all, he’d read comic books, and was starting on Narnia (a _real_ book, his schoolteacher had said, impressed). Still, he found himself gaping at this ecstatic girl and asking, dumbfounded, “What’s a wizard?”

The girl paused, frowned. “What do you mean? _You_ are.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

_“No.”_

_“Yes!”_

“Wizards aren’t real.”

“Then how’d you fix your bike?”

A pressing question indeed, one that would trouble Grantaire for some time—all the way in to next week, when, one day, riding home from school on his newly repaired bike, he found the girl waiting for him in her front yard.

She waved him over. Grantaire almost pretended he couldn’t see, but something about her forbade him. Maybe it was the secret they shared: Grantaire’s brief foray into the world of the magic. Maybe it was the gap-toothed smile.

“I told my papa about you,” she said, as Grantaire parked his bike. “He said we should be friends. He said he’d like to meet you.”

Grantaire blinked, uncertain what to do with this information.

The girl stuck out her hand. She was barefoot again, like the first day, and she wore a red shirt and bluejeans. She looked comfortable, unlike she had last Sunday in her yellow dress.

“My name is Angéle,” she said, which was odd. The way she said it, it didn’t sound like her name.

Grantaire took her fair hand in his dark one. “I’m Grantaire,” he said, sealing his fate.

Over the next few months, Grantaire learned a lot. He learned that Angéle’s sister was called Cosette, and that she was wonderful, though nothing like her twin. (She was a girl, where Angéle was—well, not.) He learned that the twins’ papa, Mr. Fauchelevent, was even bigger up close, and that he had a stick of wood that could make chores do themselves and mend the scrapes on Angéle’s knees after a day of romping through the neighborhood with Grantaire.

He learned that magic was real, and that he could do it, sometimes, if he wasn’t trying.

 

That Summer was the best Grantaire had ever had. He spent it roaming the neighborhood with Angéle and Cosette, reading Narnia, and drinking Mr. Fauchelevent’s cool, sweet lemonade. The big man still intimidated Grantaire, but the boy warmed up to him after, one day, he healed a particularly nasty scrape on Grantaire’s elbow.

Summer came and went. At the end, Grantaire was surprised, saddened, and envious to find out that Angéle and Cosette would not be attending school with him. Their days together were cut short once the Fall term began, but Angéle would always be waiting for him when he got home. (Grantaire was friends with both twins, of course, but he and Angéle were thick as thieves at this point.)

In October, at Angéle’s tenth birthday dinner, she announced to the table that she wanted to cut her hair.

Mr. Fauchelevent had agreed with a shrug, and after diner they’d all gone out to the garden and watched him shear off all that long, white-gold hair. On the ground, amidst the grass and dirt and Mr. Fauchelevent’s carefully tended flowers, it had shimmered in the twilight. In a moment of impulse, Grantaire had secreted a lock of it into the pocket of his shorts.

When the deed was done, Angéle looked nothing like herself, but, at the same time, more like herself than she ever had. Grantaire put the lock of hair in a shoebox in his closet, one full of secret, special things.

 

After seeing their children playing together so often, it had been only natural that Mr. Fauchelevent and Grantaire’s parents formed an acquaintance of their own. Not particularly close, but close enough for Grantaire’s parents to invite the Fauchelevents over to dinner when Christmas came around and they got wind that the Fauchelevents would be celebrating alone.

This was when the trouble happened.

Grantaire’s uncle was, as far as Grantaire knew, his only extended relative. They didn’t see him often, because he had a very busy job (Grantaire didn’t know what, exactly; his mother always pretended not to hear him when he asked), but he always came at Christmas.

He was a tall, stern man, with dark, constantly furrowed eyes and graying hair cut like one of Grantaire’s G.I. Joes. He had a strange, long coat: navy blue, with many silver buttons. When he spoke, it was with clipped, precise words, using only the necessary amount of syllables. Despite his gruff exterior, Grantaire knew he was secretly a good man, and had even seen him smile once or twice.

Uncle Javert arrived on the 24th at four p.m.. The Fauchelevents arrived at five.

Grantaire rushed to the door, but his uncle got there before he could reach the bottom of the staircase.

Grantaire’s uncle stared at Mr. Fauchelevent, who stood on the doorstep between his children and stared right back.

Mr. Fauchelevent was the first to speak. He cleared his throat.

“Minister,” he said, inclining his head.

“Headmaster,” Grantaire’s uncle replied, levelly.

_“Former_ Headmaster,” Mr. Fauchelevent murmured.

“Of course,” said Grantaire’s uncle, tight-jawed. He stepped aside from the door. Mr. Fauchelevent had to bow his head again to fit inside. The girls saw Grantaire hovering at the stairs and immediately went to him, while the men walked quickly into the main room where Grantaire’s parents were, frowning and avoiding eye contact.

“Who was that man?” Angéle demanded, en lieu of hello. Their friendship was beyond such things at that point.

“My uncle.”

“Why did Papa call him Minister?”

Grantaire shrugged. “Why did he call your papa headmaster?”

Angéle frowned, and shrugged.

At dinner, their questions remained, and became possibly even more pressing, especially when Grantaire’s uncle refused to say a word to Mr. Fauchelevent, instead taking to glaring across the table at the man. For whatever reason, Grantaire’s parents didn’t notice, cheerily engaging Mr. Fauchelevent in conversation about something or other they’d seen on TV.

Abruptly, Grantaire’s uncle stood, and marched into the kitchen.

Angéle kicked Grantaire under the table.

“Ouch,” said Grantaire.

“Go talk to him,” muttered Angéle, indicating the door to the kitchen. “Ask why he’s mad at Papa.”

Grantaire shook his head vehemently, spearing a carrot on his fork and shoving it into his mouth.

“Come _on_ , Grantaire.”

He looked at her, wide-eyed, her with her shorn hair and fiery gray eyes. It didn’t take long for him to do what she told him. It never did.

He swallowed his mouthful of carrot and, while his parents were distracted with their conversation, slipped out of his chair and into the kitchen.

His uncle was reaching into the overhead cabinet to get a glass. Grantaire coughed.

“Um,” he said. “Uncle Javert?”

His uncle jumped and dropped the cup, hissing out a curse as he whirled.

“Oh,” he said, relaxing when he saw his nephew. He rubbed a hand across his stubbled jaw and huffed, placing his free hand on Grantaire’s shoulder. “Sorry, Grantaire, I’m… distracted.”

He looked it, too; his eyes were distant, looking at something Grantaire couldn’t see and doubted was actually there—plus, he was a little occupied at the time.

His uncle turned to clean up the glass he’d dropped, and found that it hadn’t broken.

There, a little below eye-level, floated the cup, unshattered.

Javert looked at the hovering glass, raised his eyebrows, then looked at his nephew, who was staring at the glass with wide, terrified eyes.

Calmly, Javert plucked the cup out of the air, held it before Grantaire’s face, and asked, very deliberately, “Did you do this?”

Grantaire’s whole body shook. His uncle’s hand returned to his shoulder, his grip firm but reassuring.

“Grantaire,” he repeated. “Did you do this?”

With nothing left to do and nowhere to run, Grantaire could only nod.

Grantaire expected—well, he wasn’t sure what he expected, but it wasn’t for his uncle to nod, once, put the glass away, and lead him back into the dining room, where he sat as though nothing had happened.

Angéle gave Grantaire an expectant look, but he was too shell-shocked to say anything.

That night, after the Fauchelevents had gone home (Angéle and Cosette sharing worried looks toward Grantaire), after Grantaire had been sent to bed, he heard yelling form downstairs. Worried something was wrong, he crept to the bottom of the steps and craned his neck to listen to the argument coming from the living room.

“—he’s a wizard, Marsilie. He’s one of us—“

“One of _you_ ,” Grantaire’s mother corrected.

“Fine, one of me. The point stands, he’d be better off living among his own kind.” His uncle’s voice was patient, firm. Grantaire’s heart sped up. They were talking about _him_. “There’s nothing for him here.”

“There’s his family.”

“I’m family—“

“I’m his _mother.”_

“It’s not like you’d never see him again—“

“I will not allow it.”

Javert sighed for a long time.

“Marsilie,” he said. “I know this is hard, but you have to understand that keeping him here would only hurt him in the long run. He deserves to know what he is. He deserves to live in the world he belongs to.”

The living room was quiet, then. Grantaire took the opportunity to move closer to the living room door and carefully peer inside.

His mother was crying in the center of his room, and his uncle was awkwardly holding her in his arms.

“You’re right,” she said, wetly. “But—Christ, he’s my _son_ —“

“I’ll take care of him. Don’t worry. He’ll be safe with me.”

Grantaire could no longer stand by while they discussed his fate like this.

“Mom?”

The adults whirled on him. He suddenly felt very small, and tried to make himself seem very big by puffing out his chest, clenching his fists. “What’s going on?”

His mother sniffed, dabbed her eyes, held out her arms. Grantaire stepped dutifully into them, making eye contact with his uncle under her arm. The man’s face was expressionless.

“You’re going to go live with your uncle in Paris for a while, love,” Grantaire’s mother said.

“What about school?”

“You’ll go to a new school.”

Grantaire asked the question he really wanted to know in a small, weak voice: “What about my friends?” He thought about the house across the street. Mr. Fauchelevent. Cosette. Angéle. What on earth would he do without Angéle?

His mother petted his hair, kissed the top of his head. “You can write each other every day.”

“You and Dad—“

“We’ll always be here. Just a phone call away. And we’ll visit lots!”

Grantaire, despite his best efforts, felt his eyes start to sting.

“But—why?”

At this, his uncle cleared his throat, and Grantaire’s mother let go of her son to turn to him.

Javert gestured to the couch.

“Grantaire,” he said. “It’s time for the three of us to have a long talk.”

 

They left for Paris on Tuesday, two days after Christmas. Grantaire spent the two days packing the things he’d need, and planning his farewells. He barely had time to feel sad—it was all happening so fast…

It was a lot for a ten year old to take in.

On Boxing Day, he arrived at the Fauchelevents with a heavy heart, a battered copy of Narnia, and his old bike.

Angéle answered the door with a smile that quickly fell.

“What’s—“

“I’m leaving to live with my uncle,” he said. He’d practiced the words a thousand times, but rehearsal couldn’t gauge reaction. He didn’t cry, looking at the expression on Angéle’s face, but only because he’d promised himself he wouldn’t.

They went inside. Mr. Fauchelevent made tea. The four of them sat solemnly around the table while Grantaire explained that his uncle was going to teach him magic in Paris.

He gave both the twins promises to write, and then he gave Cosette his copy of Narnia, and Angéle his old bike waiting outside. He gave Mr. Fauchelevent a hug. Then, when there was nothing left to say or do, he started home.

Halfway across the street, Angéle ran out and threw her arms around him. They stayed like that in the street for a long time, saying nothing (there was nothing to say—they both understood, without words).

The next morning, as Grantaire climbed in to his uncle’s black car, he could still feel Angéle’s warm embrace and her short, soft hair tickling his chin. He tried not to look at the house across the street, but eventually the temptation grew too great. The house was almost out of view, but standing on the porch, Grantaire could just make out three figures: one giant, one in a white dress, and one in a red sweater.

It was raining.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lots in store for the next chapter, though not sure when i'll be posting. soon? maybe. just know it's coming. thank you for reading, and check out my tumblr @bacchusofficial or @bacchusvevo if you wanna hang!


	2. Summer, 1998 (aka the future takes a day off)

21/08/98

_Dear Grantaire,_

_Have you ever had a dream that felt like it was real? I know it’s silly, but I just did._

_Nevermind._

_Anyway, how’s Paris? You’ll never guess where we are:_ _Romania_ _. Papa brought us to the_ _dragon reserve!_ _He had some business or other here—I think he was making a donation? Anyway, it’s incredible here. Cosette’s taken lots of photos; I’m sure she’ll send some to you when she writes. I wish you could be here. You’d love the Opaleyes, they’re gorgeous, and quite friendly if you’re polite. One of the dragon trainers was really impressed with how I handled one. She actually offered me an apprenticeship, can you believe it? But Papa said no—said I have to stay in school. You know how he is. He says hello, by the way._

_Speaking of school, by the time you write back I’ll probably be back at Hogwarts. It’s no dragon reserve, but I’m excited, nevertheless. (Don’t call me a nerd, being excited about school. I know you secretly are, too.)_

_When do you go back to Beauxbatons, again? The ninth, right? I know it’s after us. What classes did you sign up for? Are you taking Arithmancy? You should; I am._

_Can you believe we’re going to be fifth years? It feels like we were just starting school yesterday._

_Write back soon._

_-Enjolras_

 

Javert cleared his throat.

“Grantaire,” he said. Grantaire started, looking up from the letter to his uncle across the breakfast table.

“Hm?” he asked, a little sheepish. Judging from the look on Javert’s face, this was not his first time trying to get Grantaire’s attention. (Or his second. Or his fourth.)

“I asked if you had plans for today,” said Javert. “But I see that they are, apparently, reading a one page letter over and over.” He ate a matter-of-fact spoonful of cereal, thick brows raised slightly.

Once, his uncle saying such a thing would’ve made Grantaire squirm in his seat, but now, after living with him for nearly five years, Grantaire knew Javert was full of shit.

He rolled his eyes, folding the letter up and setting it (carefully) beside his own cereal bowl. “You’re the one who always says to never do things halfway,” he said. “I was just following your advice.”

Javert hummed—as close to laughter as he ever got—and turned the page of _Le Parisien_ , tapping it casually with his long, hickory wand to reveal the wizarding news. “Who’s the letter from?” he asked, opting not to taunt back, which was probably for the best—otherwise, they’d be at it all morning, and Javert had to go to work at some point.

“Enjolras,” said Grantaire, pushing his Cheerios around his bowl.

“Which one is that?”

Grantaire cleared his throat. “Enjolras Fauchelevent.”

At the end of third year, Grantaire had received a very ( _very_ ) long letter explaining to him the concept of transgender and informing him that his oldest friend’s name was Enjolras. The letter had ended with the words, “I understand if you don’t want to be friends anymore, and, truly, if you don’t, then I don’t, either.”

Grantaire had responded, simply, “If you being a boy was going to stop our friendship, it would have three years ago.” Javert’s perpetual frown deepened, and he changed the subject, just as he always did when the name Fauchelevent came up. Grantaire still didn’t know why; every time he asked, Javert went into a mood and started storming around their home, aggressively cleaning everything in sight and ranting about bread (of all things).

Grantaire had learned that it was best not to ask.

“So,” said Javert. “Do you have plans today, or not?”

“It’s the last day before school starts.”

Javert blinked, unamused, and waited. He always insisted on straightforward answers, which Grantaire thought was a little odd for a politician.

“Yes,” said Grantaire. “I have plans. Why?”

“I was wondering if you wanted to come in to work with me today.”

Grantaire nearly choked on his Cheerios.

 _“Work?”_ he said. “Like. To the Ministry?”

“Yes, Grantaire,” said Javert, patiently. “To the Ministry. Where I work.”

Grantaire had been to the Ministry before, but not in years—not since he’d been to little to look after himself at home—and even then, he’d just been stuck in a room with Madame Magloire from Muggle Relations while his uncle did whatever it was the Minister of Magic had to do all day.

Grantaire was not keen on catching up with Madame Magloire.

“Um,” said Grantaire, trying to think of a tactful answer. Then he blurted, “Why?” because he was fifteen, and impatient, even with himself.

Javert squared his shoulders and folded up the newspaper, clasped his hands on the table, looked Grantaire in the eye.

Oh, no.

“Grantaire,” he said, in his speech voice—his Minister Voice, which also happened to be his Concerned Guardian Voice. “Tomorrow, you start your fifth year of education. Do you know what happens in fifth year?”

Grantaire didn’t answer; he had the feeling Javert was about to tell him.

“In the wizarding world, we have something called O.W.L.s—“

“Owls,” Grantaire interrupted. “Clever. I get it, ‘cause we’re wizards—“

“I’ve told you not to interrupt unless it’s absolutely necessary,” said Javert, which was hardly fair—it had seemed pretty necessary to Grantaire. “As I was saying, we have something called O.W.L.s. They are a standardized test, and they’ll determine the jobs you are eligible for once you are of—“

“Uncle Javert, I know what O.W.L.s are, I’ve gone to school for four years.”

 _“Grantaire,”_ Javert snapped. Grantaire quickly shut his mouth. His uncle closed his eyes and counted to five under his breath.

“My point with this,” he said, opening his eyes. “Is that it’s time for you to start thinking about your future—about what you want to do after school. As your guardian, it’s my duty to ensure you do well for yourself in life, and I think it would be wise, given your circumstances, to pursue a career at the French Ministry.”

Grantaire fidgeted with his spoon, thinking about the ministry workers he’d seen: everything from imposing women carrying suspicious black briefcases to scatter-brained old men running around with exploding chickens held at arms length. The building itself had also been a sight, with its long, wide hallways and endless expanse of doors, everything decorated like it was made for Louis XIV—hell, maybe it had been—owls and pigeons flying messages from department to department, people bursting out of fireplaces. It had all been so exciting to an eleven-year-old muggleborn, who’d only seen magic in books.

But then, Grantaire thought about Madame Magloire in the minuscule Muggle Relations office, stuck indoors all day. He thought about his uncle, going to work ten or more hours a day in an office with no respite, no vacations because “It’s my duty to always be there” and “the lawless don’t rest, Grantaire, so neither can the lawful.”

All in all, Grantaire supposed the Ministry could be exciting. But it was no dragon reserve in Romania.

“Grantaire, are you listening?”

“Yes.”

“Then why didn’t you answer my question?”

Grantaire cleared his throat. “Um,” he said. “Could you repeat the question?”

Javert pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. “I asked if there was any specific field you were interested in at the Ministry.”

“Oh.” Grantaire wracked his brain for job titles that he could use to appease his uncle, but drew up blanks. He’d been wondering what, exactly, a dragon reserve looked like (apart form the fire), and then he’d started thinking about fields, which, inevitably, led to Quidditch. He was meeting up with Joly and Bossuet that afternoon to practice—they were finally trying out for the team this year.

Maybe there was something in the house to jog job inspiration, thought Grantaire, looking around as subtly as he could.

“House” was a generous term—to all eyes but theirs, they lived in a one-bedroom flat in an unassuming Paris apartment building, but when the key was turned in the lock, one found themself in a spacious, two-story home with an open floor plan, three bedrooms and an office, though the apartment view of bustling Paris remained the same.

“Er,” Grantaire said, eyes darting around the dining room. Hanging on the wall beside some of Grantaire’s old art (which Javert refused to take down, no matter how many times Grantaire asked) was a plaque that read _To commemorate E. Javert’s twenty-five years of service to the Auror Office—_

“Maybe,” said Grantaire, “I could be an Auror?”

As soon as he said it, he was filled with the worst kind of regret—instant—because his uncle’s face lit up with pride.

“You’re interested in being an Auror? That’s wonderful, Grantaire—a noble profession. Of course, it’ll be a lot of hard work, and you’ll have to earn your place—though I do have contacts in the offices. Now, as to your O.W.L.s—“

He went on for some time, and probably wouldn’t have stopped had his pocket watch not reminded him, in its loud, tinny voice, that he was going to be late to work.

“Ah,” he said, standing up and waving his wand at their empty cereal bowls; they floated through the kitchen door and clattered into the sink. “We’ll continue this discussion soon. Are you ready to go?” He eyed Grantaire skeptically—he was wearing muggle clothes, and ratty ones at that. Not the best look for the Minister’s nephew.

Grantaire looked down at himself and straightened out his Power Rangers t-shirt. “Oh, um. Joly and Bossuet and I are playing Quidditch this afternoon.” He winced under Javert’s disapproving gaze.

“I see,” his uncle said. “If that’s more important to you than your future—“

“Uncle Javert,” said Grantaire, making a face. “It’s the last day of Summer. I’m sure my future can wait one more day.”

Javert opened his mouth, but was interrupted by his pocket watch again. (“TEN MINUTES!”)

With a final shake of the head, he said, in the ominous tone only people with children or countries to run can have, “You’d be surprised,” and with a CRACK he disapparated.

Grantaire would never get used to that.

 

08/09/98

_Dear Enjolras,_

_Paris is fine, but Manosque is better, right now. I’m here at Joly’s house about to play Quidditch with he and Bossuet—you know, I’ll never get used to floo powder. Why can’t wizards just use trains? I suppose it’s not as fast, but at least I can still feel most of my limbs after a train ride—_

_Sorry. Tangent._

_Anyway._

_We’re going to try out for the Quidditch team this year. I think we’ve all got good shots at it, too._

_Term starts tomorrow, you were right. No, I didn’t sign up for Arithmancy. Who in their right mind signs up for Arithmancy with O.W.L.s around the corner? It’s bad enough I’ve got Potions. Science and maths are my kryptonite—contrary to muggle beliefs, magic doesn’t make_ _everything_ _easier._

_God. Speaking of O.W.L.s, my uncle is now under the impression that it’s my dream to become an Auror. Do you know how hard it is to be an Auror? I don’t, but I’m sure I will when Uncle Javert gives me a list of all the O.W.L.s I have to get Os in. If only I could be a dragon trainer like you—I found a picture of an Opaleye in one of Javert’s books, by the way. They’re definitely something._

_Hope your first week at Hogwarts went well. Say hello to the giant squid for me (and to Cosette, of course)._

_Write again._

_Your friend,_

_Grantaire._

~~_(P.S. tell me about your dream)_ ~~

 

Scrunching up his nose, Grantaire scratched out his last few words and tore off the end of his paper. No, that was stupid—

_“R!”_

Grantaire jumped, looking up to see his friends zooming over on their broomsticks. They’d walked back to Joly’s house to borrow one of his brother’s, because halfway through the trio’s trek to the big sunflower field they used as a pitch, Bossuet had realized that he’d forgotten his own broom at home. Again.

Grantaire had offered to go on to the field so he could set up their goals (they’d built them themselves the Summer before. Thanks to magic, they still hadn’t fallen apart). He’d overestimated how much time it would take, and what had begun as a sketch of their sunflower-riddled Quidditch pitch had turned into a letter to Enjolras.

The drawing was still there, at the letterhead. Grantaire had enchanted it so the flowers swayed in the breeze.

“Come _on_ , R!” hollered Bossuet, waving his arms above his head until Joly smacked his hand and chastised him for bad broom etiquette, at which point he switched to one-hand waving. “We’re burning daylight!”

Grantaire grinned and dropped his pen and sketchbook on top of his backpack, grabbing his broom where it lay beside the patch of field where he’d sat.

“You’re the one who forgot to bring a broom to Quidditch practice!” he shot back, kicking into the air. _Flying_. Now there was one form of wizarding transportation Grantaire could get behind.

“Joke’s on you, I got to spend more time with Joly,” said Bossuet.

“Yeah,” said Joly, “I’m a fucking delight.”

They high-fived, which nearly sent Bossuet toppling off his broom.

They spent the whole afternoon practicing, stopping only once when Joly’s mom called them in for lunch. She was a wonderful woman, who’d passed on her bright, dimpled smile and corny sense of humor to her son.

They took turns at different positions, with regard to the spots each other wanted on the team. Joly and Bossuet both had their eyes set on Chaser, because they liked the coordination of it. Grantaire wanted Beater, mostly because he fancied the beaters on the Parisian Porlocks, Sybil and Silenus Segal—though he’d deny it to his grave.

Around eight o’clock, Joly shielded his eyes from the setting sun and suggested they call it a day. They landed, and, as they packed their things, Bossuet caught sight of Grantaire’s sketchpad.

“Who you writing to?” he asked, waggling his eyebrows because he _knew_ who, of course. Grantaire couldn’t fully blame him for the gesture, the guy was simply using the only hair he had left. He’d had an afro when Grantaire met him in first year, but he’d eventually gotten tired of accidentally setting it on fire during Charms (and Potions, and Transfiguration, and Muggle Studies) and shaved himself close to bald during third year. It was a tradition amongst their friends to rub his fuzz for good luck before exams. Maybe that was why the guy himself was so _un_ lucky.

Grantaire grabbed his sketchbook and shoved it in his backpack. “Your mom. She says mind your own business,” he said, without malice.

“Tell Enjolras I said hello!” Joly called from where he was fitting his broom into its case—he’d saved for a Nimbus since first year, and he protected it like it was his child.

“You’ve never even met him,” said Grantaire, with a laugh.

“But thanks to you, I know him in my heart,” said Joly, solemnly, placing a hand over his heart for effect.

“Come on, I don’t talk about him that much.”

 _“Yes you do,”_ Joly and Bossuet informed him in unison.

Grantaire tried not to frown as he slung his backpack over his shoulder. Sensing his friend’s insecurity, Bossuet threw an arm across his shoulders.

“Hey,” he said. “That’s no bad thing, my friend. You just care about the people you love!”

“Ex-actly,” said Joly, and Bossuet put an arm around him, too. “We love your love, R.”

“Yeah,” said Bossuet. “Even if said love belongs to a certain pair of Parisian Porlocks.”

“You have no proof.”

“Confess!” Bossuet cried. “I _know_ you’ve got a scrapbook somewhere, and when I find it, Joly owes me five galleons.”

Laughing, the three of them wandered back through the sunset field of flowers to Joly’s cozy house, where, after saying goodnight and making plans to meet when they got to school the next evening, they cheerfully parted ways.

Grantaire returned home just past nine, bone-weary but happy. Javert wasn’t home, which was unsurprising—his hours were wildly unpredictable—so Grantaire was alone in their apartment.

He went into the living room, where Javert’s old but regal horned owl waited patiently in her cage.

“Hi, Fantine,” said Grantaire, unlocking her door. “I’ve got a letter for you to take.”

The owl gave him an exasperated look. _Another one?_

He picked up an envelope from the drawer in the table her cage sat on, and scrawled _Enjolras Fauchelevent, Hogwarts, Great Hall Probably_ on it—nearly forgetting to add “P.S. Joly says hello” before sealing the letter inside and tying it to her leg.

“Thanks, Fantine,” he said, scratching her head, opening the window. She perched on the sill, ruffled her feathers a bit, and took off into the night.

Grantaire closed the window and went to his room. Before going to bed, he fished Enjolras’s letter from that morning out of his bag and tucked it away in one of several tightly-packed shoeboxes beneath his bed (not to be confused with the single not-nearly-full shoebox safely hidden under a pile of dirty robes in his closet).

He was still smiling when he shut out the light, thinking about the day. He was so glad he’d made the future wait this one out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> according to wiki, O.W.L.s don't happen until 6th year at Beauxbatons, but oh well amiright?? 
> 
> thanks to everyone who supported the last chapter! it really helped inspire me to write more. next chapter'll be up some time in the next week or so, with luck. 
> 
> don't forget to say hi on tumblr @bacchusofficial or @bacchusvevo!


	3. Start of term, 1998 (aka Quidditch tryouts)

18/09/98

_Dear Grantaire,_

_I didn’t tell Cosette hello, because she ended up getting your message on her own when I had to ask her to explain all the muggle culture references you put in your last letter. Kryptonite? Really? Don’t you think that’s dramatic? Surely you won’t_ _actually_ _die around numbers. It’s not very funny to trivialize poor Clark’s allergy—he can’t help it, and anyway he seems like a good, upstanding citizen._

 _If you don’t want to be an Auror, you should tell your uncle you don’t want to be an Auror. It’s your future. I’m sure he’ll understand. You shouldn’t get yourself stuck in a job you don’t love. Though, to be honest, I think you’d make a good Auror, and it wouldn’t be_ _that_ _hard—not for someone as smart as you._

_I don’t know what I want to be, yet. Everything, I think. There’s just so much good to be done. I guess I’ll have to get O.W.L.s in everything._

_Merlin, it’s bollocks, isn’t it? Why do we have to decide now? What if we change our minds when we get out of school? By then, we’re pretty well fucked, just because our teenage selves didn’t think to take the stupid test._

_It’s bullshit._

_Anyway, good luck with Quidditch tryouts. I’m sure you’ll do brilliant. And, if not, at least you’ll have time to study for your O.W.L.s. Homework’s brutal here, already._

_Good luck, again—to Joly and Bossuet, too._

_Write back soon._

_-Enjolras_

_(P.S. thank you for the drawing)_

 

“R, when you’re done smiling at that piece of paper, d’you mind passing the eggs?”

Grantaire made a show of folding the letter up and presenting the platter of scrambled eggs to Bossuet, who accepted them with a solemn bow of the head.

Across the table, Joly laughed at them. “What’s the word from Hogwarts, R?” he asked, without looking up from his Herbology textbook, which he studied intently, round glasses hanging off the end of his nose. It was only the third week of school, but the fifth years were already feeling the heat—their professors had been piling on homework right, left, and upside-down. Even though it was barely past nine on a Saturday afternoon, Joly wasn’t the only one studying. There was no time to waste.

Unless, of course, one had letters to read.

“Enjolras wished us all good luck at tryouts,” said Grantaire.

“Ah, and just in time!” said Joly. Tryouts were that morning. Ten a.m. sharp, the poster in the common room had said.

“I wish I could say I wasn’t nervous, but…” Bossuet gestured to the mountain of scrambled eggs before him.

“Don’t tell me you’re nervous about Quidditch tryouts!” said someone, brightly, plopping down in the seat next to Joly’s. Eponine Thénardier, the fourth and final member of their little group of friends, had arrived, and was helping herself to what remained of the eggs.

“You’re up early,” teased Grantaire.

“Oh, hush. It’s not like I need _more_ beauty sleep.” She tossed her kinky brown curls across her shoulder for effect. “Anyway, Boss is nervous about tryouts?”

“We all are,” Joly lamented, somehow still managing to pay attention to his textbook, even with all the distraction.

“Oh, you’ll all do fine.”

“Easy for you to say—you’re already on the team,” said Bossuet. He had a point: Eponine had secured a spot as Chaser the previous year, and been damn good at it, too. “Between you and that huge guy that’s Captain, I’m gonna get pounded into Longhorn powder.”

Eponine snorted. “What, you mean Bahorel? Nah. That guy’s a big softie.”

“I saw him punch a kid from De Molay in the head last year.”

“Well, that was Montparnasse. He deserved it, probably. Listen, Bahorel _knits_.”

“Shut your mouth.”

“Truth!” Eponine insisted, then turned to Grantaire. “So, how about you, R? Nervous?”

Before Grantaire could answer, someone tapped him lightly on the shoulder. It was one of the wood nymphs who flitted through the Great Hall at mealtimes, shooting judging looks at students and, if they were in the mood and you were really unlucky, singing.

Thankfully, more often than not, they just delivered students’ mail, which was what this one was doing.

“You’ve got another one,” said the nymph, glaring at him, like it was a crime to receive mail. The nymph shoved a letter into Grantaire’s hand and stalked off.

“Rude,” muttered Grantaire.

“Ooh, am I just in time for Enjolras Appreciation Hour?” asked Eponine, clasping her hands.

“No, that was at eight,” said Joly.

“Very funny,” said Grantaire, rolling his eyes and breaking open the new letter. This one was from Cosette—he could tell instantly from her neat, pretty cursive:

 

15/09/98

_Dearest Grantaire,_

_First of all, I love you. Second, you owe me Big Time for all those Superman references. Do you know how long it took to explain the concept of Superheroes to him? A_ _very long time_ _, Grantaire. You’re lucky I love you two (and that I read all those comics you sent. Thank you again, by the way! I’ll send you this wonderful Hawthorn novel when I’m finished. You’ll love it—it’s a modern spinoff of the Tales of Beedle the Bard. About Beedle!)_

_I’m sure Enjolras told you all about Romania, but, oh, it was incredible, Grantaire. I’ve sent you some photographs (they’re stuck in the envelope)._

_I hope you’re doing very well. Good luck at Quidditch tryouts!_

_Love,_

_Cosette._

 

As Grantaire read, the conversation moved on cheerily without him, as the other three discussed strategies for tryouts. Grantaire put Cosette’s letter in his bag with Enjolras’s and reached in the envelope for the photographs.

They were taken with the camera Cosette had received on her thirteenth birthday. She’d been good at photography then, and was even better now—she’d even learned how to develop the film so the pictures would move.

There were three photos: one of what looked like the grounds of the reserve (beautiful, all sprawling hills and valleys), one of a tiny green dragon who sneezed out bursts of flame periodically (Grantaire was especially grateful that Cosette had been willing to part with that one for him), and one of—

“Merlin’s beard, is _that_ Enjolras?” Eponine cried, jumping up so she could lean across the table to spy on Grantaire’s business better.

Grantaire would have complained, but he’d forgotten how to use his mouth.

The photo showed a young man standing on top of a rock, overlooking an enclosure that housed a large, glittering dragon—Grantaire recognized it as the Opaleye. It was beautiful, yes, but Grantaire was more focused on the young man in the foreground.

It had been a while since he’d seen Enjolras—in photos or otherwise. There had been no visits, on account of the Fauchelevents’ tendency to travel abroad during the holidays. (They no longer lived across from Grantaire’s parents, so even Christmas was out.) There had been one photo, just after Cosette had gotten her camera, one of a scowling thirteen-year-old with a bad haircut that had made Grantaire laugh. Apart from that, their correspondence had remained written.

This photograph didn’t make Grantaire laugh. He wasn’t sure he could’ve, if he wanted to.

In it, Enjolras’s white-gold hair was longer (still not _long_ , but long _er_ ), and wisps of it blew in the breeze. He had his hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans, and he had his head tilted towards the brilliant blue sky, and he looked… Happy. Sure of himself. Comfortable in his own skin.

As Grantaire watched, picture-Enjolras turned, smiled, waved.

Beside Grantaire, Bossuet let out a low whistle, and the spell was broken. “Wow, R,” he said. “You never told us he was part Veela.”

“Bossuet, that’s very offensive to Veela,” said Joly, who was Grantaire’s only true friend in that he wasn’t poking in Grantaire’s business, still studying intently. He must have read the whole book just during breakfast. “You know they’re people, too—not adjectives to use for—“

“No, Joly, I was serious—he’s part Veela.”

Joly finally peered across the table at the photo. His eyebrows went up, slightly. “Oh,” he said, then, “You’re right,” then, “R, why didn’t you tell us he was part Veela?”

Eponine and Grantaire met each other’s confused, muggleborn gazes across the table, and said, together, “What’s a Veela?”

Bossuet gasped, jumping out of his seat. He hadn’t seemed to have heard them, or, if he had, he’d been distracted by realizing the time and yelling that they only had twenty minutes to get ready for tryouts. The news shot all four of them into gear—Joly even closed his textbook—and they all quickly forgot about Veela. Whatever they were.

 

The Quidditch Pitch was set up just beyond Beauxbatons’ huge, sprawling gardens. It was partially hidden by a copse of trees, as though that would make it less unsightly.

Not that it was, in itself, unsightly. It was just that anything within a five mile radius of the school’s regal chateau and literally-magical gardens got uglier by contrast.

It was a gray, humid morning, and it was hot. Grantaire couldn’t wait to get in the air—he’d kill for a breeze.

About thirty students were gathered on the pitch, all from House de Charny. There were three houses at Beauxbatons, each named for a dead French knight. Grantaire wasn’t sure why—he supposed they had to name the houses _something_. They couldn’t all have four convenient founders like Hogwarts—not that Hogwarts’s house system was by any means a role model.

According to Enjolras, they chose your house based on what your morals were like (at age _eleven_ , no less). Grantaire couldn’t even imagine such a thing—the houses at Beauxbatons were just based on which dorm wing they decided to stick you in, and that caused enough rivalries in itself. He couldn’t fathom the kind of elitism that must’ve went on at Hogwarts.

_“Alright, everyone, listen up!”_

A booming voice cut across the pitch. Conversation ceased, and all attentions went towards the speaker—a tall, muscular sixth year with dark brown hair shaved into a short, loose mohawk. Uniforms weren’t required on weekends, so most people wore casual robes or muggle clothes. The sixth year, along with the members of the team from the previous year (including Eponine) wore the red-and-white Quidditch robes of House de Charny.

“Here’s how today’s going to go,” said the sixth year. “For those of you who don’t know, my name’s Bahorel, team captain. Last year, we lost a couple of seventh-years to the real world, so here’s what we’re looking for—two Chasers, and another Beater. If you’re here thinking you’re gonna get a different spot, you’d best go on and leave.”

Several people actually did leave, muttering to each other. Grantaire was relieved; their numbers were down to more like twenty.

“So,” Bahorel went on. “Chasers, you’ll go with Eponine and Floriel—“ He indicated Eponine and another girl in Quidditch robes with bright pink hair. “—and beaters, you’ll go with me and Feuilly.”

A redheaded boy beside Bahorel, also in robes, waved slightly. Grantaire recognized Feuilly; they had Art together, and Grantaire remembered him as last year’s seeker. He was good—really good. Grantaire’s nerves shot up again.

“Any questions?” Bahorel asked.

There were no questions.

Before they parted ways, Grantaire, Bossuet and Joly shared nervous looks of encouragement. If all else failed, thought Grantaire, following Bahorel and Feuilly to the far end of the pitch, at least Bossuet had remembered his broom.

 

“So,” said Bahorel, hurling a small, heavy ball right at Grantaire’s head. “Ever played on a team before?”

Grantaire deftly maneuvered his broom and slammed the ball back towards Bahorel. The captain watched it zoom overhead with an unreadable expression, then summoned it back with his wand.

Their group had separated. Some did group exercises with Feuilly, while one flew one-on-one with Bahorel.

Grantaire the first with Bahorel, because he was just lucky, he supposed.

“No,” he said, truthfully, successfully dodging and returning Bahorel’s second throw, too.

“What makes you want to?”

Grantaire shrugged. “I like flying.” He inhaled sharply when Bahorel’s next ball required a bit of quick thinking on his broom—he had to lean out of his seat to reach it with his bat, and it took a second for him to steady his broom afterwards.

There was a hint of amusement in Bahorel’s eyes. “You _like_ it?” For some reason, he snapped his fingers a couple times. Grantaire didn’t really think anything about it—some people had weird quirks.

Grantaire shifted a little on his broom. “Well, I’ll admit, a little more than like. To tell you the truth—“

Something small and black caught his attention out of the corner of his eye, and he whirled just in time to see a bludger—a _real_ one—careening toward him from below.

Just as anyone seeing their life flash before their eyes might, Grantaire let out a shriek of terror.

But he also sent the bludger flying across the pitch, where it terrorized the chasers at the other end. Admittedly, it had been more fight-or-flight than skill. But he still did it.

Bahorel was roaring with laughter, but there was nothing cruel about it. _“Brilliant,”_ he wheezed, wiping a tear from his eye. “But I don’t think anyone’s screamed like that since the Giant Wars.”

Grantaire grimaced. “It’s one of my few talents.”

“Along, it seems, with Beating,” said Bahorel, jovially. He flew closer to Grantaire so he could hold out a large, square hand. “What did you say your name was?”

“Grantaire.” Grantaire shook his hand. “Some people call me R.”

“Who? Your friends?”

“Yeah.”

“Well,” said Bahorel, with a crooked grin. “It’s good to meet you, R. Let’s fly back down—by the way, what was it you were going to say about flying?”

Grantaire couldn’t help it. He smiled. “There’s nothing like it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i don't know if you guys have noticed, but i'm kinda making up the mechanics of Beauxbatons as i go. i read through the wiki, but as far as everything not mentioned there goes, i'm gonna go buckwild. 
> 
> also, thank you to everyone who's left comments!! they bring me great joy and really do inspire me. 
> 
> and thank you to everyone for reading! as always, find me on tumblr @bacchusofficial or @bacchusvevo. don't be shy!


	4. September 1998-June 1999. (aka new friends, old friends, and the in-between)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we're almost at the end of part one, folks. two more chapters to go! what a ride.

10/10/98

_Dear Enjolras,_

_Sorry about the Kryptonite in my last letter. I forgot that even people like you had weaknesses. I am also sorry I wasn’t able to write back sooner. School’s been wild the past few weeks._

_Joly, Bossuet and I all made it on the Quidditch team! Which is brilliant, of course, but it’s made homework a tricky business. I’ve stayed up past dawn more times than I can remember, at this point. I can already see your disapproving paragraph, don’t bother writing it. I know what I’m about. Don’t worry._

_Anyway, Enjolras, I’m glad you’ve decided on world domination for your career path. Unfortunately, us lesser folk (i.e. myself) cannot hope to be so bold. I thought about what you said, about telling my uncle I’d rather do something I love, but, to be honest, there aren’t that many options for me. I mean, I’m a decent artist, and an okay Quidditch player, but I’m not about to tell my uncle (the damn Minister of Magic) that I’d rather paint than make a decent living for myself. He’d probably self-destruct._

_I’ve tried to find something I want to do. Ideally, something I’d be good at. But, honestly? I just want to live. I want to have good friends and make good art and not worry about doing things for money—just do things because I want to._

_But I can’t very well tell my uncle I want to do nothing, either._

_I’ve thought about this a lot. (Can you tell?)_

_I think I’m just going to do what Uncle Javert wants and be an Auror. Who knows, maybe I’ll be good at it, like you said._

_I’m actually about to have a talk with my head of house about my career—it’s this stupid thing all fifth years have to do. He’s talking to someone else, right now. I’m waiting outside his office—that’s why I’ve got time to write you._

_Speaking of you, enough about my stupid problems. Sorry about dumping all that on you. How’s Hogwarts? What have you been doing (besides homework)?_

_Write again._

_Your friend,_

_Grantaire._

_(P.S. tell Cosette her photographs were beautiful, and that I do absolutely owe her one, possibly even two or three.)_

 

Just as Grantaire scrawled his last few words, the door to M. Myriel’s door opened, and a girl from Grantaire’s year appeared in it, along with the man himself.

“Thanks, Professor,” said the girl with a smile, which M. Myriel returned.

“Of course. If you have any more questions, you’re welcome to stop by any time.” As the girl left, M. Myriel peered at Grantaire from the doorway.

“Ah, Grantaire. Good afternoon—come inside. Thank you for waiting.”

“I didn’t mind,” said Grantaire, tucking his letter into the back pocket of his robes—the ridiculous pale blue uniform, as it was Tuesday (a school day). On the breast, a patch displayed the coat of arms of House de Charny: a white raven on a red background.

M. Myriel’s office was small but inviting. On the rightmost wall was a fireplace—cold, at the moment—with a number of photographs on the mantle. Also on the mantle were two silver candlesticks—the only hint of ostentatiousness in the office. Behind the wide oak desk in the center of the room was a tall window overlooking the gardens; in front of it was a pair of comfy red chairs, draped with knitted throw blankets of the de Charny coat of arms. M. Myriel gestured for Grantaire to sit in one.

“So,” said M. Myriel, with a soft sigh as he lowered himself into his own chair behind the desk. “How’s school going for you, Grantaire?”

Grantaire shifted in his armchair. “Fine,” he said.

“I understand you’re on the Quidditch team, now. Congratulations.”

“Thanks.”

“Are you excited for Saturday’s game?”

“Yeah.”

M. Myriel smiled gently at him. “Not one for idle conversation, then?” he asked. “You ought to try it, sometime. It eases the mind.”

Grantaire said nothing, offered a half-assed smile. It wasn’t that he didn’t like idle conversation—on the contrary, most of his professors would say he liked it too much—it was just that he had a lot to do, and he’d rather get out of M. Myriel’s office before noon. He liked M. Myriel, but his brand of kindness was, for whatever reason, something Grantaire had a hard time feeling like he deserved.

“Very well, let’s dive right in,” said the old man. “So, have you chosen a career path, yet, or would you like to discuss—“

“My guardian wants me to be an Auror.”

M. Myriel’s eyebrows went up faintly. “I imagine he does,” he said, with amusement. “Eugene always had a propensity for such things. And what do _you_ want to be, Grantaire?”

 _I want to be me_. “An Auror,” said Grantaire.

“I see,” said M. Myriel. Something in his tone told Grantaire he saw a little more than Grantaire wanted.

“Well—“ The professor produced a purple pamphlet from the pile on his desk, adjusted his round silver glasses, and said, “You of course know that such a path will not be easy, and thus should not be taken lightly. You’ll have to receive top marks in—“

“Charms, Potions, Transfiguration, and Defense Against the Dark Arts,” Grantaire recited. “Yes. And take N.E.W.T. levels.”

M. Myriel laughed. “I see you’ve done your research,” he said. “Yes, those four subjects would be a must, though I would suggest Muggle Studies, as well. Looking over your transcript for the past four years, those goals are entirely within your reach, assuming you continue to work hard.” He flipped briefly through a folder on his desk, nodded a few times to himself, then closed it. “Yes, your grades seem in fine form. However, in regards to a career as an Auror, that would only be the first step.”

Grantaire blinked. “Sir?”

M. Myriel clasped his hands on his desk. “Auror training requires at least three years of additional work after school,” he explained, patiently.

Grantaire felt his heart sink, even as he asked, “What sort of training?”

“Magical aptitude tests, practical defense courses—they have to make sure you’re able to act under pressure, handle dealing with dangerous or unruly characters, things like that.”

“I see,” said Grantaire, feebly. _Three whole years?_ At fifteen, that was a lifetime.

“It’s difficult—not everyone makes it. I think I could count on one hand the number of new Aurors the Ministry has taken on in the past four years.”

“That makes sense.” Grantaire felt miniscule. “I mean, they’re the ones supposed to protect the rest of us, right?”

“Exactly,” said M. Myriel, then, leaning forward with a look of concern, “Grantaire, I’m not saying all this to discourage you I just want you to understand that this is not a choice to be taken lightly. There is no doubt in my mind that, if you are willing to work, to dedicate your time to this goal even after graduation, you can be successful. The question is, are you willing?”

Grantaire thought about his Uncle. The only thing worse than choosing not to be an Auror would be to try, and fail. And it seemed like there was a good chance he might. And then what? Three years down the drain—not to mention the time he spent in School. And what if he _didn’t_ fail? Then that was his whole life gone.

But, hell. What else was he supposed to do?

“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I’m willing.”

M. Myriel handed him the purple pamphlet with the instructions to stop by if he ever needed anything.

“Anything,” M. Myriel reiterated, as Grantaire stepped out the door. “Even just a friendly chat.”

Grantaire forced back a smile, and thanked him with a heart made of lead.

 

“Right, boys!” shouted Bahorel, jumping on the locker room bench in full Quidditch gear, (unless one counted anything that would cover his beefy torso, in which case he was missing several key components).

Eponine cleared her throat.

“And girls,” amended Bahorel, in a slightly less emboldened voice.

Floriel coughed.

“And gender ambiguous/nonbinaries.” Bahorel took a deep breath. “Everyone! Regardless of your place on the gender spectrum! We are going to _crush_ de Molay!”

For a beat, the locker room was silent. Then Joly, who was half-stuck pulling his robes over his head, yelled an enthusiastic “Huzzah!” and the rest of the team chorused their own excitement.

“Listen, team. Just remember what we’ve practiced. _We’ve got this._ And we’ve got spirit! Skill! Panache!” Bahorel paused, trying to think of more superlatives.

“Bossuet!” Joly offered, robes now properly on, making jazz hands towards the one and only Bossuet, who gave everyone two thumbs up. Eponine ran a hand over his shaved head, cackling.

 _“That’s right!”_ Bahorel hollered. “Now, everyone, on three, we shout, _‘Crush de Molay!’_ One, two—“

A pair of white and red robes hit him in the face, and Feuilly laughed, “Put a shirt on, you goon.”

Grantaire grinned, leaning against the lockers with his broom clutched in one hand and his bat in the other. There were probably no six people he loved more than the ones he was stuck in this gross, smelly locker room with. The past month, while strenuous, had been one of the best of his life, thanks to them. It was amazing how easy it was for people to grow close when they spent five out of seven afternoons throwing balls at each other.

“I think what Bahorel’s trying to say,” Eponine spoke up, once everyone was properly attired, “is that it’s time to kick de Molay’s asses. Who’s with me?”

Everyone cheered, including Bahorel, who jumped off the bench to high five Eponine. The cheering evolved into a lot of jumping around, which in turn led to them bursting onto the Quidditch pitch in a seven man/woman/nonbinary riot, amidst roars from the stands.

It was a bright, sunny Saturday afternoon, not too hot, not too cold. And, win or lose, it was perfect.

 

14/10/98

_Dear Grantaire,_

_It makes me sad to know you’re willing to give up on yourself so easily. You’re really just going to do what your uncle wants, just because he wants it? All that’s going to do is make you unhappy. Maybe for the rest of your life. Is that really what you want?_

_You’re selling yourself so short. There are plenty of things to do with your life—it doesn’t have to be all or nothing. Especially not for you._

_Okay, now that I’ve said all that—_

 

Grantaire couldn’t read any more past that—his hands shook too much, and his vision blurred. He tried to use the sleeve of his (stupid) uniform robe to wipe his eyes, but that ended up making it worse. Great. Here he was, fifteen years old and crying at the dinner table.

“Fuck,” he muttered, placing a tactical hand over his brow, a sort of shame-umbrella.

Everyone else was busy celebrating their victory; it had been a tough game, but they’d fought hard, and they were all in high spirits, recounting the match with wide grins and excessive hand gestures. Grantaire had been right with them, until one of the nymphs had flourished a letter in his face and, spirits heightening even more, he’d opened it there at the dinner table.

Now the game was almost forgotten. He couldn’t stop thinking about Enjolras’s words. He was right, of course. That wasn’t what hurt. Nothing he’d said was anything that hadn’t been eating away at the back of Grantaire’s mind since his meeting with M. Myriel last Tuesday.

What hurt was the tone—the fucking _disappointment_ leaking out of every word. Grantaire knew he was a coward. He knew he should tell his uncle what he felt. He just hadn’t wanted to deal with _his_ disappointment—he hadn’t even considered what Enjolras’s might feel like.

He wondered which would be worse. If this was anything to go by, he hoped he didn’t find out.

Someone touched his arm. “R? You okay?” Eponine. He could never hide things form her, especially not things like this. She had a sixth sense for them.

He couldn’t hide, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t try.

He discreetly wiped his eyes again and smiled. “Nothing,” he said. “Just tired. Long day, you know.”

Eponine, of course, didn’t buy it for a second. “You were fine ’til you opened your letter.”

Grantaire stared resolutely at his lap.

“Did something happen?”

“No, no,” he said. “It’s fine, I just—“ He glanced up at the others to check that they were still celebrating. They were. Despite everything, their smiles were infectious; one flickered across his own mouth, seeing them.

“Do you remember,” he said, quietly, “How I told you Uncle Javert wants me to be an Auror?”

“And how you don’t,” said Eponine. “Yeah.”

“Well, I decided I’m going to.”

She didn’t say anything. He looked down again, and started talking very fast—“I know I should just tell him I don’t want to, and I’m a stupid coward, but I don’t have a backup plan or even a regular plan and anyway, I’ll probably learn to like it, and even if not it’ll be fine, I’ll just do it, I don’t mind, at least it’s _something,_ and anyway I already told M. Myriel—“

“Grantaire,” said Eponine, gentle hand on his shoulder. He stopped, breathing hard. He had to give his eyes another fervent scrub.

“Grantaire,” she repeated, after a beat. “You don’t have to justify yourself to me—I’ll be behind you no matter what, obviously. If you think it’s the right choice, so do I.”

_Was it the right choice?_

Grantaire had to swallow a few times before he got himself together—God, R, get yourself together, stop being stupid, she’s _comforting_ you, why are you crying?—and said, “Thanks, Ep.”

“But why are you upset?”

“Nothing,” he lied, sliding the folded letter into his pocket. “I just—I don’t know. The future, and everything. It just hit me all the sudden, you know?”

He knew she didn’t quite believe him, but because she knew him very well and because she was one of his very best friends, she didn’t press, just smiled and kept her hand on his shoulder.

“Yeah,” she said. “I get it. But, hey, enough of that for now. We’ve got a match to celebrate! The future can take a day off.”

Grantaire laughed, even though he wasn’t so sure, anymore.

 

For the first time in five years, Grantaire didn’t write Enjolras back. Not the next day, the next week, the next month. He thought about it, and when he did, he felt guilty, but every time he looked at Enjolras’s last letter, his stomach turned over and he couldn’t bring himself to read the rest.

Anyway, he was busy. With Quidditch, and O.W.L.s, and his friends, and other letters he’d been receiving. Letters from his uncle, once a week, asking after his O.W.L. progress. He knew they were just because Javert cared, and wanted him to do well, but sometimes, especially after week five of his now regularly-scheduled Official Ministry Sealed Envelope, Grantaire wished his uncle cared a little less.

Well, not less care. Just… less intensity.

But, intensity and all, Grantaire made it through the rest of the month. He made it through Christmas, where he went back home to his parents’ with Uncle Javert—where he received a Christmas card from the Fauchelevents (and a note from Cosette; “We love you very much! And miss you. Take your time. Just know we’re always here, no matter how intense a certain one of us can be about criticizing Your choices.”)

Grantaire had responded with a drawing of his parents’ house, with all the lights his mother had insisted all “The Men” help her put up. “Merry Christmas,” he’d written in the corner, and, “Sorry.”

Beyond that, Grantaire made it through the New Year, even though at Joly’s New Years Party Bossuet had insisted on playing “Party Like It’s 1999” on repeat.

He made it through the Quidditch season—they all did, though Bahorel fell into a deep sadness when they lost the Cup to House de Bouillon, only coming out of his funk when he was reminded “At least de Molay didn’t win.” (They had a particular hatred for their team, not because of any house rivalry, just because they were all a bunch of assholes. “The de Molay Cocks,” Bahorel was fond of calling them; he insisted it was because the bird on their coat of arms was a rooster.)

Hell, Grantaire even made it through O.W.L.s. That’s what he’d sighed with relief when he and Bossuet had stumbled in a post-test daze out of Muggle Studies—the last of their O.W.L. exams.

“We made it through,” he’d said.

“Let’s just hope we made good marks, too, eh?” Bossuet had laughed.

And, just like that, the year was over. Looking back, it felt like a blur, though surely it had taken longer than a blink of the eye. Grantaire could hardly believe he was packing his trunk already.

Tucked beneath a pair of lumpy socks (he’d not used them all year—they were practically _un_ usable), Grantaire found a letter.

And, after goodbyes to his friends on the team (his closest friends, at that point—people he’d probably die for, should the need arise) and promises to hang out over the Summer, Grantaire climbed into the big gaudy carriage that would take him home to Paris, and started a letter of his own.

 

09/06/99

_Dear Enjolras,_

_I’m sorry I never wrote back._

_Well, to tell you the truth, I’m not. But I am sorry I never wrote other, separate letters._

_I don’t have an excuse. I don’t even have much of an explanation, just that your opening statements were a little tough to swallow._

_It’s been a long year, but it doesn’t feel like it. Especially as I write this. This feels like slipping back into a comfortable pair of shoes. It was stupid of me to wait so long. I missed this. And you. I’m really fucking sorry._

_How are you? I’d ask how O.W.L.s went, but I know you probably got all Os, so there’s no point._

_(Except Muggle Studies. Something tells me you did a little less well, there. Something Superman-shaped (sorry—Clark Kent).)_

_Hey, you probably don’t remember this, but at the end of last Summer, you told me you had a dream. One that felt real. I was wondering if you could tell me about it. I’ve kind of been dying to know._

_Take all the time you need, but if it’s not too much to ask,_

_Write again?_

_(I’ll write back soon, this time.)_

_Your friend, (really),_

_Grantaire._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey everyone! thanks to [PeterProuvaire](http://archiveofourown.org/users/PeterProuvaire/pseuds/PeterProuvaire) for their wonderful ideas about Beauxbatons houses (namely the house birds! so cool), to everyone who's commented such nice encouraging thoughts, and to you, for reading! 
> 
> by the way, if you like my writing, [check out my novella](https://payhip.com/b/zBLe)! it's about dionysus and apollo saving(?) the modern world together, one road trip and Queen song at a time.


	5. Written correspondence c. 1999-2000 (aka sixth year and coming of age)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter takes place between the end of 5th year and the beginning(ish) of 7th year. i wrote it like this 'cause i don't want to spend too much time at school; i'm real excited for what happens after!
> 
>  
> 
> anyway, try to pay attention to the dates so the timeline doesn't get too confusing. hint: it's in the european style: day/month/year. 
> 
>  
> 
> we'll return to our regularly scheduled programming next update. thanks a ton! enjoy.

Letter from Enjolras. 15/06/99

_Dear Grantaire,_

_1) I’m sorry, too._

_2) I missed you, too._

_3) Please never do that again._

_I’m fine. I’m relieved that school’s out, and O.W.L.s are done with. I really want to just stay at home and relax, but Papa’s taking us to America over the Summer. Lord knows why. It’ll be fun, of course, but I really just want to stay home and see my friends and wait for my test results. Is that weird? It’s probably weird._

_I can’t believe you remembered the dream thing. I’d almost forgotten. To tell you the truth, I don’t remember much of it anymore. I usually don’t remember my dreams at all._

_I remember this: Papa was there. And my mother. At least, I think it was her. I never really met her. But it was her, I think. I don’t remember what they said—I’m not sure I could understand it, if I did. The next thing I remember is an owl—your owl, actually. Or, well. Your uncle’s owl. And then I woke up._

_I don’t know. Dreams are weird._

_What are you doing this Summer? I hope you’re well._

_Write back soon (you promised),_

_Enjolras_

 

Letter from Joly. 29/07/99

_Grantaire!!_

_How are you? I miss you!_

_Listen: Bossuet, Eponine, and Feuilly are all coming to stay at mine for the week, and I was hoping you could come, too! We miss you! I said that already but it’s still true!_

_Anyway, even if you can’t stay, try to visit. Bring your broom, too!_

_Love you!_

_-Joly_

 

Letter from Bahorel. 16/08/99

_Dear R,_

_What’s this I hear about you not being able to come to Summer Quidditch practice? You’re not coming down with something, are you? What, do you expect me to hold both bats by myself??_

_Signed a highly disgruntled Bahorel._

_(P.S. I’m just fucking with you. Of course it’s fine to have a life and all. But, with all seriousness, are you doing alright?)_

 

Letter to Bahorel. 18/08/99

_Dear Bahorel,_

_Don’t worry, I’m fine. I wish I could come, but my uncle’s been having me come to work with him every fucking day, now. Says it’ll help with the Auror office. Duty calls! :-(_

_Tell everyone I love them, and give my bat a kiss for me, would you? I’ll try and make the next one._

_Signed an apologetic R._

_(P.S. I’m hanging in there, don’t worry.)_

 

Letter from Bahorel. 20/08/99

_R—_

_Your uncle want you to be an Auror? My parents want me to be an auror, too! Let’s get matching jackets. I’ll give you yours at the next Quidditch practice._

_Signed your comrade in arms aka Bahorel._

 

Letter from Enjolras. 23/08/99

_Dear Grantaire,_

_I’m not saying that_ _no one_ _could beat Clark Kent in a fight, all I’m saying is that a wizard that accomplished at wandless magic would be very difficult to take down, especially for a Muggle—not that they aren’t capable in and of themselves._

_Anyway, America is very hot, but sweet tea is probably the best thing in the world. How’s Paris?_

_Write back soon,_

_Enjolras_

 

Letter to Enjolras. 27/08/99

_Dear Enjolras,_

_How many times do I have to tell you that Superman is not a wizard?? He’s a_ _Super Man._ _I thought Cosette went over this with you. Speaking of, tell her I’ll never forgive her for letting you read the comics._

_Paris is busy. It’s been claustrophobic, honestly. But this weekend I’m staying at Joly’s with the Quidditch team. I’m really looking forward to it._

_Tell me more about America._

_Write again._

_Your friend,_

_Grantaire_

 

Letter from Beauxbatons Academy of Magic. 01/08/99

_1998-99 School Year O.W.L Results_

_Defense Against the Dark Arts — O_  
_Divination — E_  
_Charms — O_  
_Potions — E_  
_Transfiguration — O_  
_Muggle Studies — O_  
_Astronomy — O_  
_Herbology — A  
_ _Care of Magical Creatures — E_

_Signed M. Myriel, Head of De Charny House, Fourth Order of Lancelot._

 

Letter from Cosette. 01/09/99

_Dearest Grantaire,_

_Best of luck in the new school year! I’m so proud you did well on your O.W.L.s, though entirely unsurprised. I’ll bet your uncle was happy, too. Is he still being hard on you about being an Auror? (Also: Don’t worry about the Potions thing, an E is really good and I’m sure you’ll be able to take N.E.W.T. levels, don’t be silly!)_

_Speaking of, I didn’t tell Enjolras you’ve been doing internships at the Ministry all Summer, like you asked, but I think you should. He’s been worried about you. He’s not said so, but I can tell. He knows you’ve been stressed about something. I know you don’t like to talk to him about that stuff anymore, but communication is key in all things._

_Of course, it’s not my business what you do._

_Anyway, I’ve sent you a book I just read. It’s about a werewolf fighting for equality in the modern wizarding world. (Since you’re not telling Enjolras things, don’t mention you’re reading this, either. It’s one of his favorites. Like, in a scary way.)_

_Have a wonderful last few days of Summer._

_Love,_

_Cosette_

 

Letter from JAVERT. 4/10/99

_GRANTAIRE._

_HOW ARE YOUR STUDIES COMING ALONG?_

_MINISTRY HAS BEEN BUSY. MME. MAGLOIRE SAYS “HELLO,” AS DOES M. FRASER._

_HOPE YOU ARE WELL._

_SIGNED E. JAVERT, MINISTER OF MAGIC, F.M.O.M._

 

Note from Bossuet. 17/11/99

_R—_

_Prank war is ON. meet me in West Garden @ 0900 hours tmrw morning. Feuilly + Ep can NOT win again._

_Over and out,_

_—The Eagle_

 

Christmas card to Enjolras, Cosette, and Mr. Fauchelevent. 23/12/99

_Merry Christmas! Hope you’re having a great time in Spain. Mom says hello. —Grantaire_

 

Flier from Auror Offices: Paris, France. 01/01/00

_Don’t forget, with New Years come new opportunities for an exciting career in the Auror profession! Sign up for the 00-01 training period TODAY!_

 

To M. Fraser, Auror Offices: Paris, France. 03/01/00

_M. Fraser, stop sending these fliers to me. You know I’m not even out of school, yet._

_—Grantaire_

_[attached: flier]_

 

A letter from M. Fraser, Auror Offices: Paris, France. 09/01/00

_Sorry, R! They’re automatic._

 

A message from Joly. 24/02/00

_Hello, everyone! Don’t forget R’s SURPRISE birthday party tonight at the Quidditch pitch (7:00). M. Myriel said his lips are sealed but we STILL have to watch out for other teachers and the nymphs! Bring snacks and love!_

 

A note to Joly. 24/02/00

_“Surprise Birthday Party”_

_-R_

 

A note from Joly. 24/02/00

_I KNEW I’D MESSED UP THE GROUP MESSAGE SPELL!!_

_NOOOOOOOOOO_

_Pretend you don’t know, okay???? Happy birthday, R! Sorry!!_

 

A letter from Enjolras. 24/02/00

_Dear Grantaire,_

_I really hope this got there on the right day, but if not, oh well._

_Happy birthday. That’s the sixth time I’ve written that in a letter to you. Did you know it’s been six years since we met? Almost seven, really. How old were we? Ten? You’re_ _seventeen_ _now. I can’t believe you’re of age before me. You can apparate, now! I wish I could apparate. Then I could see my friends whenever I want._

_Speaking of seeing people._

_We’ve known each other for six years, and I haven’t seen you in five. And yet we’re still friends. That’s incredible to me. It says a lot about the nature of friendship, you know?_

_Anyway, I hope you have a great birthday. Cosette’s present and letter are in the package attached. So’s my present._

_I meant to give it to you last year, but… Well._

_It’s an Opaleye scale. I found it the Summer before last. At the Dragon Sanctuary, remember?_

_Happy Birthday._

_Write back soon,_

_Enjolras_

 

A note in Charms Class. 07/04/00

_Did you know that Joly’s going to ask Bossuet to the Equinox Ball?? -Ep_

_No, but I knew Bossuet was going to ask Joly. -R_

_Oh, no. This is going to be a disaster. -Ep_

_Speaking of disasters, do you want to go with me? -R_

_Oh_ _Merlin_ _, R. Is this a declaration of love??? -Ep_

_No! As friends, I mean. -R_

_Thank God. I thought I’d have to write Enjolras you were cheating on him. -Ep_

_????????????? -R_

_Poor thing. Anyway, sure, I’ll go with you. Also: ten sickles says Joly asks first. -Ep_

_You’re on. -R_

 

Letter to Enjolras, 25/05/00

_Dear Enjolras,_

_We won the Quidditch Cup!_

_Just barely, but. We did it. I don’t think Bahorel’s ever going to be able to stop grinning. We’ve broken him. It’s his last year, you know. And Floreal’s. I’m going to miss them so much. I can’t believe I won’t see them at all next year._

_Of course, just because you never see someone doesn’t mean you can’t be friends, still. You and I know that better than anyone._

_Anyway, the whole team’s getting tattoos once school’s out. I’m not sure how I’ll hide it from my uncle, but I_ _am_ _of age, so…_

_I’m really happy, Enjolras._

_I know it’s silly, I mean, it’s just a school Quidditch Cup._

_But we_ _won_ _it._

_It’s been. A really stressful year. I didn’t tell you, but last Summer, my uncle got me an internship at the Ministry, and I did that every day. I barely got to see my friends at all—I suppose that’s how you feel when you travel. Except at least you have fun._

_I mean. I shouldn’t say that. It was fine. I met some good people, and all. And it wasn’t awful, but._

_It was certainly no Quidditch Cup._

_School’s almost out! No more N.E.W.T.s for a_ _year_ _. (Well. Three months.) Thank Merlin. I thought I was going to die at least five times. Especially with my uncle writing twice a week—I got so much Ministry mail, I’m sure the nymphs thought I was some kind of undercover agent._

_Give Cosette my love. I hope you’re both as happy as I am right now._

_Write again._

_Your friend,_

_Grantaire_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one's a bit shorter than the rest have been, but the next one's gonna be pretty long, so it evens out! anyway, don't forget to say hello on tumblr [@bacchusvevo](bacchusvevo.tumblr.com) or [@bacchusofficial](bacchusofficial.tumblr.com).


	6. September 2000 (aka, it's a bird, it's still a bird, it's—Superman!)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this isn't the chapter i was planning to post, i.e. it's much shorter, but this section didn't fit in as well as i thought it would with the rest, and anyway, it's been a while since i updated. enjoy, kids!

For whatever reason, Grantaire had always been a morning person. There was something about the light, something in the quality of the air, that never failed to put him in higher spirits Maybe it was something Javert had instilled in him. Maybe it was just his nature. Hell, maybe it was Maybelline. Not that he wore makeup—not that he _couldn’t_ , if he wanted—

God, he was tired.

Quality air or not, waking up at five a.m. for fourteen weeks in a row took an inevitable toll on a young wizard.

Grantaire stumbled through the Official Ministry Fireplace around six-fifteen, bleary-eyed and armed with a travel mug of coffee. As he made his way to the Auror Offices, a couple people said hello, and he nodded at them without stopping.

The Auror Offices had a wing to themselves; spacious, with tall ceilings and wide halls with paintings of famous Aurors displayed on the walls. At the moment, most of the portraits were asleep.

Grantaire could relate.

M. Fraser’s office was the tenth door on the right. The man was chipper as ever when Grantaire walked into the room, though his smile fell a little after giving Grantaire a once over.

“Alright, R?” he asked. He was a slight man, but he held himself like a soldier—Grantaire supposed he was one, in a way. His short, dust-blond hair was whisked back out of his eyes, and he had a short but stylish beard and mustache.

Grantaire waved his words away. “Yeah, never better.”

“You look like you’ve been struck by lightning.”

“I’ll have you know this look is all the rage with us teens, these days.”

M. Fraser seemed to recall something; his eyes furrowed. “When does school start up for you?”

Grantaire grimaced. “Friday.”

_“Friday?”_ M. Frazer scoffed. “And you’re in here _working?”_

“Uh. Yeah.”

“Listen, R. Take the rest of the week off.”

Grantaire blinked. “What?”

“You heard me.”

“But—“

“Hush!” M. Fraser cried, waving his hands wildly. “You’re a kid. It’s your _last Summer_. You shouldn’t be working. Go live a little, why don’t you?”

It was one of the hardest things Grantaire had ever done, to try to refuse. He could see the sunlight peeking in from the curtains of M. Fraser’s window (enchanted, of course; there was no way for actual windows to work on this level of the building) and wanted nothing more than to feel it against his skin.

After a very long nap, of course.

“My uncle,” he muttered, very reluctantly.

It was M. Fraser’s turn to wave him off. “I’ll talk to him, don’t worry. Go on and be a kid.”

Grantaire could have wept.

“Thanks, M. Fraser,” he said, already halfway out the door—but he paused.

“Er,” he said. “I’ll see you… soon?” Because it felt odd to just _leave_. As opposed as he may be to staying in the office one second longer, M. Fraser wasn’t a bad guy, and, despite it all, Grantaire would probably miss him.

M. Fraser smiled. “Of course, R,” he said. “Next year at Training, I’d say. I can’t wait to stop wasting perfectly good fliers on you.”

Grantaire smiled back, said a (very) awkward goodbye, and walked back down the hall, where the portraits were just starting to wake up.

 

The patch of floor in front of their apartment’s fireplace was dusty, despite the rug in place to stop just that. Neither Grantaire nor his uncle had had time to sweep it in ages—maybe Grantaire would do that this afternoon.

It was barely seven-thirty, and the Paris sun shone through the tall windows in the living room, and Grantaire had a letter to write.

 

5/09/00

_Dear Enjolras,_

_School starts again on Friday. I suppose it already has for you, huh? It’s our last year. I sort of can’t believe it. It feels like I’ve barely been at all. I can still remember when I wasn’t a wizard. It’s insane to think—to know—that there was a time when I wasn’t._

_How are you? How’s Cosette?_

_I was wondering if, you know, you two aren’t b—_

 

CRACK.

Grantaire jumped; someone had just apparated into the middle of the living room. Someone who was holding their wand like it was a gun.

“WHO’S HERE?” Javert yelled, whirling around. “SHOW YOURSELF!”

“Uncle Javert?” asked Grantaire, quickly raising his hands when the wand turned on him. “It’s just me!”

Javert instantly lowered his wand, swore under his breath. He stepped over to where Grantaire was tucked into the sofa and laid a gentle hand on the back of his nephew’s head, pressing him to his chest—a rare display of affection that at once made Grantaire fond and uncomfortable.

“Grantaire,” Javert said, softly. “I thought you were—“

“What?” asked Grantaire, pulling away. “A bread thief?”

He instantly regretted the jibe—Javert’s eyes darkened and he turned away, seemingly because he’d noticed the dusty fireplace. With a flick of his wand, the dust flew up the chimney—another oddity of their “little” apartment.

Grantaire hesitated, then, cautiously, began, “Uncle Javert—“

“Why are you back so early?” asked Javert, changing the subject before it was even broached.

“Why are _you_ back so early?” Grantaire countered.

“You set the alarm off.”

“We have an _alarm?”_

Javert sighed, sinking into an armchair by a window. For the first time, Grantaire realized how he had aged since Grantaire had moved in. His once salt-and-pepper hair was now mostly gray, the lines around his mouth more pronounced. It wasn’t surprising—it had, after all, been close to seven years—but it was strange, noticing. Especially when Grantaire remembered being ten and thinking the man was invincible.

He still did, in a way.

Grantaire opened his mouth again, was again intercepted. Something had dawned in Javert’s eyes. He gestured at the parchment and pen in his nephew’s hands, “Are you writing that boy?” he asked. There was no need to clarify what boy he meant.

“Yeah,” said Grantaire, because that was always the answer, wasn’t it?

“What owl have you been using?” his uncle demanded.

“Um. Our owl?”

“Merlin’s—“ Javert began, rubbing a hand across his eyes. “Fantine?” His tone was sharp. That was his Minister’s Voice. “You’ve been sending Fantine?”

At her name, the owl stirred where she slept at her perch on the table by the window, head tipped curiously.

“Yeah,” said Grantaire. “Unless she’s got some sort of doppelganger—Uncle Javert? Are you… okay?”

Javert had just shot out of his seat, and was pacing the living room, muttering to himself and smoothing his hands through his cropped hair.

“Idiot,” he was muttering. “All this time, and you didn’t once think—“ Despite the anger in his tone, his face was pallid—his hands, usually so steady, shook, just a little, just enough.

Grantaire set his letter aside and stood. “Javert, is everything—“

Javert froze, turned on his heel like a member of the Royal Guard, and said, “We’re getting you an owl.”

Grantaire gaped at him.

“Well?” Javert demanded. “Get your shoes on, let’s go.”

“Don’t you have to go to work?” asked Grantaire, though what he meant was _what the fuck is going on?_

“This is more important.”

_“What the fuck is going on?”_

Javert didn’t even reprimand him for swearing; all he said was “You’ll know, some day,” and ignored the rest of Grantaire’s questions.

 

05/09/00

_Dear Enjolras,_

_I had started a different letter to you, but that one was interrupted when my uncle burst into the living room and accidentally tried to kill me (long story). In that letter, I asked how school was going, reminisced about the past, etc. etc._

_In this one, I’m going to rant. So be ready for that._

_You may notice I have a new owl. She’s lovely, isn’t she? She’s a Great Horned Owl (named so because she’s great, presumably). Her name’s Superman._

_I got her because, apparently, I’m not allowed to send letters to you using Fantine, anymore. Why, you ask? I haven’t a fucking clue. He won’t tell me_ _anything_ _. I’m basically an adult now, right? (Yikes.) Shouldn’t I know why I can’t use the owl I’ve been using for six years now? The_ _family owl?_ _And it’s not that I can’t use her at all—just not to send things to you, or Cosette._

_I think it has something to do with your dad._

_Anyway, more on that story as it emerges. Back to my original letter._

_How are you? How’s school? Last year, huh? We’re finally gonna see the real world—not that you haven’t already, Mr. Real World._

_To tell you the truth, I’m worried about it. Not a_ _lot_ _. But. Enough. Does that make sense?_

_Write again._

_Your friend,_

_Grantaire._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, thanks to everyone who's given kudos, everyone who's commented (and who will hopefully comment now!), and you (specifically), who is reading this message.
> 
> also, hey, if you like my writing, maybe check out [my novella](https://payhip.com/b/zBLe). it's about dionysus trying on expensive pants in modern LA (among other things).


	7. Seventh year, March-June 2001. (aka how to conjure a dove)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys, this has taken a while to finish, but here it is! it's much longer than regular chapters, but only because it would've broken my heart to break it up. hope you enjoy; here's the end of what i'm calling Part One (though by no means the end of the story!)

With a cloud of smoke and feathers, Grantaire’s eighth attempt at conjuring a dove puffed out before it was even fully formed.

“Fuck,” he said, without feeling, and sat on the rim of one of the many Beauxbatons fountains. This one was shaped like a couple of mermen, though not any mermen Grantaire had grown up learning about (still beautiful, in their way). They were laughing at him.

“Shut up,” he muttered, and, for his trouble, one of the mermen used his tail to splash water across Grantaire’s back.

Grantaire put his head in his hands and groaned.

“R?”

He looked up. Joly was approaching him, smile concerned.

“Everything alright?”

“Yeah, it’s alright,” said Grantaire, smiling back best he could. “But it’s not Great, to tell you the truth.”

Joly sat beside him, put a hand on his shoulder, recoiled with a grimace when he found it wet, then pulled out his wand and, with a wave of it, Grantaire was dry again.

“Thanks, Joly.”

“That’s what friends are for,” he said, replacing the hand on Grantaire’s shoulder.

“What, to put up with each other moping around just because they can’t cast a spell right?” Grantaire laughed; usually, he found it best to turn his problems into jokes.

But Joly, this time, didn’t play along. He looked serious when he said, “No, R. To care.”

They sat quietly for a while, a rare occurrence for either of them, let alone both. Finally, Joly broke the silence.

“You said you were having trouble with a spell.”

Grantaire groaned. “Yes,” he said. “The stupid Avis charm.”

It was a requirement that all seventh-years learn to conjure a dove—part of the graduation ceremony, an age-old tradition and what have you. Which wouldn’t be so bad, except the charm had to be performed wordlessly. And it was _March_ , and Grantaire still couldn’t even do it regularly.

“Hey,” said Joly, bumping shoulders with Grantaire. “Don’t beat yourself up, kid. Maybe I can help?”

Grantaire grimaced, not pleased at the reminder that most of his friends had already mastered the spell.

“That’s okay, I’m sure I’ll figure it out eventually. I don’t wanna waste your time teaching me something a toddler could do—ouch!”

Joly had just smacked the back of his head. “Stop that, R,” he said. “If I didn’t want to help, I wouldn’t have offered. Show me your spell.”

Obediently, Grantaire waved his wand at the air and recited, _“Avis.”_

There was a horrible screech, and a few feathers puffed into the air. Grantaire watched dismally as they drifted to the ground and disappeared.

Joly hummed. “What are you thinking about when you cast the spell?”

“Uh. I don’t know, doves?”

“Maybe you should try a lesser bird, first. Doves are really magic.”

“What, then, like, a pigeon?”

Joly shook his head emphatically. “No way! Pigeons are the _most_ magic.”

“How do you know?”

“I’m a wizard, duh.”

They stared each other down, then burst into laughter. Eventually, Joly suggested a swallow.

“African or European?”

“What?”

“Never mind.” Grantaire stood, took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and cast the charm.

This time, there was no shriek—unless Joly’s counted.

“Oh! _R!”_

Cautiously, Grantaire cracked an eye open. Joly was kneeling on the grass in front of him, smile bright, a little bird cradled in his hands.

“I did it,” breathed Grantaire.

“Of course you did! See? You were just overthinking things again, R.” Joly let the conjured bird hop onto the ground and stood, wincing a little at the pain in his bad knee. He’d injured it in a Quidditch game last year, and it still hadn’t healed properly. He refused to stop playing, though, no matter what his parents or Eponine (their Captain this year) said.

Grantaire stared at the bird. “I thought, maybe…” He scratched the back of his head.

Joly frowned. “What?”

“I thought. Since, you know, my parents are muggles, I thought. Maybe I wouldn’t be good enough.”

It felt stupid, saying it out loud. Cheeks hot, he stared resolutely at his feet.

Joly was quiet for several long seconds. When Grantaire finally looked up to see if he was okay, it was just in time to receive a bear-hug.

“Grantaire,” said Joly, fiercely into his shoulder. “Don’t you _ever_ think that. You will always be enough.”

“But—“

“No buts! Always.”

Since there as nothing for Grantaire to say, he simply let his arms fall around Joly, and they stayed like that until the swallow disappeared.

 

Grantaire would always be the first to profess his undying non-romantic love for Eponine Thénardier, but even his heart was tested on the fourth rainy Quidditch practice in a row. His bones were starting to get waterlogged.

At least, he reconciled, as he methodically sent a bludger flying out of the way, they didn’t have to wear their Quidditch robes. Those were a nightmare to peel off wet.

He’d been doing the same thing for the last hour; hitting bludgers back and forth with the new beater, Campion. She was good, and Grantaire liked her, but… Well, she wasn’t Bahorel. And he knew it wasn’t fair to hold that against her, but. He did, a little. Secretly. Quietly.

She sent the bludger back at him, squinted at the sky behind him, and yelled, “Is that an owl?”

Grantaire turned, which turned out to be a mistake, because right as he did, a bludger slammed into his back and knocked him off-balance, sending him toppling to the ground with a holler.

It wasn’t as far as it could have been—only about eight feet. And he landed on his back. But it still hurt like a motherfucker.

There were shouts from around the pitch, and when Grantaire caught his winded breath, he opened his eyes and found the rest of the team leaning over him with looks of concern.

“Grantaire, I’m so sorry,” said Campion.

“You alright, R?” Bossuet asked.

Joly knelt beside him and started feeling his limbs for breaks.

Groaning, Grantaire waved them off, and hauled himself into a sitting position. “Yeah, m’fine,” he muttered. “Can you guys step back? You’re dripping on me.”

An owl landed on his shoulder, and he jumped, frightened until he realized it was Superman.

“You idiot,” said Eponine, who looked the most concerned of anyone. Her long springy curls dripped beads of rain across her face and her Power Puff Girls t-shirt.

“I’m really fine,” said Grantaire, though his head hurt when he moved too much. He pressed a hand to his forehead. “Just give me a sec. You guys can keep flying, I’ll—“

“Absolutely not,” snapped Eponine. “Practice is cancelled.”

“What? That’s stupid. I’m not a baby.”

“You’re hurt.”

“I’m _fine_. Even if I wasn’t, you could all fly without me.”

“No way. We’re a team. We can’t leave you out.”

Grantaire threw up his hands in exasperation (which he regretted, because _ow_ , his back definitely had a bludger-shaped dent in it). “I’m not a fucking snowflake, Ep. I’m not gonna go off and melt ‘cause you ‘left me out’ of your stupid Quidditch practice in the fucking _rain_ for the fourth day in a row.”

“My stupid Quidditch practice,” Eponine repeated, eyes fiery. Grantaire would’ve shrunk, but he was too stubborn.

“Yeah,” he shot. She took a deep breath.

 _“Well_ ,” she said. “I’m sorry for wanting to spend time with my friends, _my best friends_ , before we all leave school and never see each other again.”

“What the fuck?” blinked Grantaire. “Of course we’ll see each other again.”

“Will we, R?” she spat. “Because last Summer, I saw you _once_.”

Grantaire’s heart plummeted. “Wh—Ep. That wasn’t my fault. I had to—“

“Had to do something you told me a thousand times you didn’t want to do? Yeah, right. Listen, R, if you didn’t want to do it, you wouldn’t have.”

There was a horrible silence.

Joly gently cleared his throat. “Eponine—“

 _“What?”_ she demanded, rounding on him, now. “Were you not the one who said the same thing to me? Did not everyone agree?” She waved her arm at the others; Bossuet and Feuilly, who looked stricken, and the two new players, Campion and Madeira, who looked highly uncomfortable.

Grantaire felt bile churn in his gut. How on Earth could all his friends think he cared so little about them? Did they really think he’d stayed away on purpose? Did they not know he’d do anything— _anything_ —for each and every one of them?

“That’s _not_ what I said,” Joly insisted, but it was too late. Grantaire slowly, carefully dragged himself to his feet, where he wobbled dangerously—though he refused Bossuet’s offer of a steadying arm.

 _“Grantaire.”_ Joly took a step towards him, reaching for his hand. “You know that isn’t what—“

Grantaire avoided his eyes and gently shook his hand away. On his shoulder, Superman flapped nervously. She had a letter tied to her foot. There was a clap of thunder, and her claws tightened. She didn’t like rain.

“Since you’re all so used to me being gone, I guess you won’t mind if I leave,” he said, and turned to start the long trudge back to the chateau.

“R!” Joly shout. Grantaire didn’t turn back.

He was glad it was raining.

 

In the west wing of the Chateau, there was an old classroom where no one ever went. It was a soft, quiet place, with floor-to-ceiling windows all along the far wall. Even when it rained like this, light managed to stream in and glint off the dust floating in the air.

Grantaire tucked himself into a rickety chair in the corner and opened his letter.

 

23/03/01

_Dear Grantaire,_

_A while ago, you wrote to me about your uncle and why he got you Superman. And I said I didn’t know why, either, but I’d let you know if something happened._

_Well, nothing’s_ _Happened_ _,_ _but something’s happened._

_When I got your last letter, Papa saw Superman and asked if I ever got letters from you anymore. I guess the owl reminded him, and he’s not seen Fantine since—well, you know. Anyway, I told him yeah, that the letter was from you, and Superman was your new owl._

_And when I told him that, he looked. Really sad. I’ve never seen him look like that before. But he asked, in this soft voice, “Did something happen to Fantine?”_

_And I told him “No,”just that your uncle wouldn’t let you send me letters with her anymore._

_And then? He_ _laughed_ _, Grantaire. He laughed for a really long time, and when he finally answered me asking him what was going on, he just said, “That fool thinks I never noticed, even after all these years,” and went back to grading his papers, and refused to answer any more questions._

 _I just don’t understand him. I mean, I hardly ever do, but I especially don’t understand_ _this._

_I just thought I’d tell you. It asks more questions than it answers, but it does concern you, too. I think._

_Is Beauxbatons alright? Hogwarts is. Everyone’s excited to leave, but sad, too. I guess that’s normal._

_Write back soon,_

_Enjolras_

 

Alone in the dusty classroom, Grantaire didn’t feel bad about brushing his fingers across Enjolras’s signature. Sometimes he was struck by how much he missed him. It didn’t make sense—after all, they usually talked at least one a week, and they hadn’t seen each other in years. Neither of them was the child they’d been when they met; if they saw each other again, they’d be different people even than the ones they wrote to now. There was nothing to _miss_. This was what they had. This was how it was.

Then why, wondered Grantaire, didn’t it feel like it was supposed to?

At the other end of the room, something knocked. Grantaire figured it was Superman, since she’d been exploring, but when he looked up, it was Feuilly standing in the doorway.

Grantaire’s guts twisted into something half-pleasant, half-unpleasant. He folded his letter up and held it, just to have something to do with his hands.

“Mind if I come in?” asked Feuilly.

Grantaire shrugged. “Of course not. After all, it’s the only time you’re ever gonna see me.”

Feuilly sighed. “R,” he said, crossing the room. “I don’t think that about you.” He pulled a chair up along side Grantaire’s, tucking his long legs beneath it and folding his hands in his lap. “They don’t think that, either.”

“Well, it’s true, isn’t it?” said Grantaire. “I mean, I’m supposed to be you guys’ friend, and there I was not visiting any of you all Summer just because—“

“Because you had a job to do,” Feuilly interrupted. “You had work you couldn’t miss. I get it, R. No, really, I do. That’s part of being an adult; you don’t get to spend your time doing whatever you want. You’ve got to work, and sometimes that means not seeing the people you love as often as you’d like.”

“Being an adult sucks.”

Feuilly smiled. “Yeah.”

Grantaire was pretty sure that Feuilly had only ever been an adult. He had the sneaking suspicion that the guy had sprung fully formed from his father’s skull.

He didn’t know much about Feuilly’s childhood, only what had been mentioned in passing at quiet times like these. From what Grantaire understood, he was an orphan, but he’d been taken in by a gardener around his eleventh birthday—oddly enough, just in time for school to start.

Feuilly had probably been an adult longer than most real adults had.

“Listen, R,” he said. “None of them _really_ blame you for being busy. They’re just not used to having responsibilities like that, you know? It’s scary to think about—even for us, who have them. But it’s going to be fine. We’re not going to suddenly not know each other the minute we leave school. It’ll just be different, because we won’t see each other every day. And it’ll suck for a while, yeah. But that’s how the world is.”

Grantaire sighed. “Jeez, Feuilly.”

“What?”

Grantaire cracked a smile. “That’s some heavy shit, man. What are you, Merlin?”

Feuilly laughed, and Grantaire laughed, too, because it was impossible not to laugh when Feuilly did.

When they calmed down, the world didn’t seem so rough anymore. Feuilly shifted in his seat.

“Hey, R?” he asked, looking serious.

“What?”

“This may be a personal question. You don’t have to answer.”

“Well, now I’m curious.”

Feuilly shifted. The soft light glinted off his red curls, reflected off his gray eyes.

“I—how do you deal with it? Being so far away from someone for so long, but still loving them?”

Grantaire cleared his throat. “Do you mean—Enjolras?”

Feuilly nodded.

“Well, I don’t _love_ —“

“Oh, shut up, yes you do. You love everyone you meet, Grantaire. It’s your thing.”

He had Grantaire beat.

“How long have you written to him?” Feuilly asked.

“Seven years.”

“How the fuck can you bear it?”

Grantaire didn’t know.

He said, “I try not to think about it.” But he always slipped up when he least expected, and did think about it—about how things would be if they _did_ see each other. And, really? It was terrifying. As much as Grantaire wanted to see Enjolras, and Cosette, and even M. Fauchelevent, the idea of actually seeing them chilled him to the core.

What if they could only like each other on paper?

He asked Feuilly, “What’s this about?”

“I just—“ Feuilly looked down at his freckled hands folded in his lap. “I miss Bahorel. I mean, obviously, we all miss him. But—hell, R, he’s my best friend. You’re all my best friends, but he’s—we’ve been best friends since my first year, like you and Joly and Bossuet, and now he’s just. _Not here_. And I don’t know what the hell to do with myself, sometimes. It’s only been seven months, but it feels like—“

“Forever?” Grantaire guessed.

“Fuck,” said Feuilly, with feeling.

“Yeah.”

Grantaire thought for a minute, then said, “Listen, Feuilly. You don’t—you don’t think that because the rest of us have been friends with each other longer than you’ve been friends with us means we love you less, do you?”

Feuilly’s smile was a little wobbly. “What? No, not less. Of course not. I just… I don’t know. Now that Bahorel and Floriel are gone, I just feel like the odd one out, sometimes. I guess.”

“Well, stop that,” said Grantaire, so forcefully that Superman froze where she’d been poking through his bag on the floor. “You’re not.”

“Thanks, R,” said Feuilly, voice soft. It seemed like the rain was starting to let up outside; the light through the window was clearer, now, brighter, and cast Feuilly’s rust hair in a gold sheen. “And, listen. You are, too. Even if Eponine gets a little… intense, sometimes—“

Grantaire’s laughter echoed off the classroom’s high ceiling—Superman flew up and tried to chase it. “That’s one word for it.”

“Okay, even if she can be a _lot_ intense, sometimes, everyone still loves you. You’re our glue.”

“What?”

“Fuck, you know. The stuff that holds us together. Come on, R, I’m trying to be uplifting, here.”

Feuilly laughed, shaking his head at himself, and he was blushing at himself, too, which was ridiculous, but Grantaire laughed, too, because he couldn’t help it.

And, somehow, because maybe his hand slipped, or maybe it just felt right, Grantaire’s hand raised up to gently tip Feuilly’s head towards his own, and, without thinking too much of it, Grantaire kissed him.

And, without thinking too much of it, either, Feuilly’s hand sunk into the thick, black curls at the back of Grantaire’s head, and he kissed him back.

Grantaire had never been the type to think about what his first kiss would be like—at least, not in recent years—but this one didn’t seem half bad. It was a nice, quiet spot, with sunlight warming their faces, and they’d just been laughing together, and Feuilly was a good kisser. Plus, he was Grantaire’s best friend, so even if _Grantaire_ was a _bad_ kisser, Feuilly wouldn’t make fun of him. Probably.

Wait a second.

This was _Feuilly_.

They must have both had similar thought processes, because they both pulled away at the same time, roaring with laughter.

 _“Fuck,”_ Grantaire wheezed, as Feuilly literally fell out of his chair, hugging his sides as he shook. “What—the fuck—are we _doing?”_

“Can you even _imagine?”_

“Yes! And it’s the worst!”

When Feuilly finally got a grip and Grantaire managed to stop tears from pouring down his cheeks, Grantaire said, “Okay, so, uh. Let’s never talk about that.”

“What?” Feuilly demanded, sitting up on the floor. “No _way_ am I not rubbing it in Joly and Bossuet’s newlywed-looking faces that _you and_ _I_ had our first kiss before they did.”

Just the idea of it inspired another bout of shrieking. Surely, one of the nymphs would find them any minute and demand to know what they were up to. With their luck, they’d probably even wind up in detention.

Grantaire couldn’t find it in him to worry about it. The way he figured, everything was going to be just fine.

 

27/03/01

_Dear Cosette,_

_I just had my first kiss._

_It wasn’t romantic, or anything (if you’ll believe that). It was just… nice, really. Yeah._

_My friend Feuilly and I (I’ve told you about Feuilly before, right? I know I’ve told Enjolras) were just talking, and then. It happened. I guess. It just felt right._

_And then, shortly after, it felt ridiculous. I can’t tell you how long we laughed._

_Anyway, I’m glad that, if it was anyone, it was him. Someone I know—one of my best friends. Someone it doesn’t mean too much with. If that makes sense._

_This is so dumb. God, I feel like I’m thirteen._

_Hope you’re well._

_Love you,_

_Grantaire_

 

“Well,” said Bossuet, knelt on the ground several yards away, inspecting a pile of feathers. “It’s _almost_ a dove.”

“That’s what you said last time,” said Grantaire, sighing as he swept the feathers away with a wave of his wand.

“Well, it _was!”_

“It was an _owl,_ Bossuet.”

“Listen, R,” Joly chimed in, resting a comforting palm on his shoulder. “You’re obviously just getting tense—why don’t we go have lunch, and you can have a break, and we’ll get ready for the game this evening. We can try again tomorrow, I’m sure you’ll—“

“Joly, there’s only three weeks left until the graduate,” said Grantaire, and he tried—he really did—to keep the hopelessness out of his tone, but, well. It was hopeless.

“That’s plenty of time,” Joly assured him. “You’re so close, R. Come on. You can’t cast on an empty stomach, Mom’s always saying.”

“Hear, hear!” Bossuet cheered, hauling himself to his feet.

Stuck between Joly’s relentless encouragement and Bossuet’s never-failing optimism, Grantaire had no choice but to go along, even if his stomach was in too many knots to eat anything at lunch.

On top of the spell not coming together, tonight was their last Quidditch game. Last of the season. Last _ever_.

The future was finally catching up with them.

Joly and Bossuet remained in aggressively good moods, bringing up highlights from games of previous years, most notably the time Feuilly had caught the snitch within ten minutes, the time Bossuet had fallen off his broom and Joly had had to catch him, the time Bossuet had fallen off his broom and Eponine had had to catch him, the time Grantaire had _caught_ a bludger (which had looked cooler than it had felt), the time Bossuet had fallen off his broom and Bahorel had had to catch him—

Mostly, it was stories about Bossuet falling off his broom.

Eponine could not stop smiling, though she said nothing—when Feuilly asked what was up with her, she just grinned broader.

Grantaire managed to float himself along in a haze of disbelief; through lunch, through their time in De Charny common room, all the way up until they began their walk down to the pitch, whereupon he realized:

This was it.

Win or lose, this was the last time he’d make this walk with his friends.

It was a warm May almost-evening, and there was hardly a cloud in the sky, though the ones that were were sunset shades of orange and pink. A gentle breeze brushed Grantaire’s cheeks and, briefly, as they walked, he closed his eyes and breathed in the earthy smells lingering from the gardens. It broke his heart in the happiest way imaginable.

Win or lose, it was perfect.

 

Most Quidditch games were obviously played during the day, but it was a tradition for the season finale to be held in the evening. This was because, unlike other games, the players’ families were invited to attend the last match, and Beauxbatons wanted to give them time to make it out without having to leave at fuck-o’clock in the morning.

That said, Grantaire doubted Joly’s parents would miss it if it was held at 4am in the pouring rain. They were already waiting outside the locker rooms when the team approached.

Joly’s mom waved her hands above her head as Joly ran up to throw his arms around her. His father joined their hug, and there was a lot of yelling before any real conversation was made (if one could call exclamations such as “Are you taller?” and “Is that a new robe? I love it!” and “I missed you, too!” conversation).

Joly’s mother went on to kiss Bossuet’s cheeks and hug Eponine and Feuilly (whose cheeks flushed bright red), and finally to hurl her arms around Grantaire, grab his face in her hands, kiss both his cheeks, and pronounce, “I am so proud of you all! It’s so good to see you—goodness, your _last game!_ I can hardly believe it.” She brushed her eyes. “Oh, I still remember when you boys were playing in the backyard, and look at you, all grown up.”

Joly grinned. “Not quite, Mom.”

“Yeah,” said Bossuet, putting a hand on Grantaire’s shoulder. “Especially this one.”

Grantaire was not a particularly tall young man.

He laughed, and knocked Bossuet’s hand off. “Hey, at least my hair grows.”

“It is much longer than the last time I saw you,” Joly’s dad observed, in his quiet, kind way. He reminded Grantaire of a tortoise, sometimes, with his round glasses and easy smile.

Grantaire ran a hand through his dark curls. He guessed it was a little long—almost to his shoulders. He hadn’t noticed. Maybe he’d been too busy to. Oh, good, now he felt self-conscious—

“Well, we’ll let you all get ready for the big game,” gushed Joly’s mom. “I’m so _proud_ of you all!” After one last kiss to her son’s cheek, she started off, then gasped and whirled back around. “Oh, Grantaire! I nearly forgot, but your uncle told me to wish you luck from him!”

All the saliva let Grantaire’s mouth. “I—what?”

“Your uncle! He’s here to watch the game—he’s sat right by us. Such a lovely man, very well spoken.” Her face softened. “He cares so much for you, R.”

Grantaire gaped. She smiled.

“Anyhow, see you all after the game!” She did a little fist-pump as she and her husband retreated towards the stands. “Go De Charny!”

Grantaire didn’t realize he was staring after them until someone nudged his arm: Eponine.

“You alright, R?” she asked, quietly. Grantaire blinked, and looked around. The others had already gone off into the locker room to get dressed.

“Yeah, yeah,” he said. “I’m—fine, it’s just—“

His uncle was here? _His_ uncle? Here? At his Quidditch game? It was almost unthinkable. Javert, the _Minister of Magic_ , who barely had time to make dinner every night, who wouldn’t miss work if he was _dead_ , who actively frowned on Grantaire for playing Quidditch (“You could be focusing on your studies”). Who probably hadn’t taken a personal day in twenty years.

Javert, who was here to see his nephew’s last game. Who’d recognized Joly’s parents, and sat next to them, and wished Grantaire luck through them.

From where he and Eponine stood, they could just see (if they squinted, if they craned their necks) the rows of seats on the other side of the Quidditch pitch. It was packed with people, lit by magic lights and the swift-setting sun.

One of those people was Javert.

Grantaire smiled, and said, “My uncle’s here.”

 

“Everyone,” said Eponine, stood on the locker room bench, looking at her team with fierce eyes. “For most of us, this will be our last game.”

Joly and Bossuet made sounds of exaggerated mourning, which Eponine hushed with a wave and a quick smile.

“That means,” she went on, “That it’s time for us to give our all, and if that isn’t enough, then more. Remember, it’s the last game for a lot of De Molay, too—they’re gonna be fighting back just as hard. And I want to tell you the truth—we may lose.”

“Never!” hollered Bossuet.

“We may,” Eponine reiterated. “But, even if we do, I want every person in those stands to know that De Charny fought like Ravens!” The team beat their fists against the raven crests on the breasts of their Quidditch robes. “I want us to crush it so fucking hard that Campion and Madeira take it all the way into next year’s tournament. We’ve got a legacy to leave, damn it, and we’re gonna do it right! Win or lose,” here, she raised her broom like a sword, and screamed like a general leading her troops to war. _“Let’s kick De Molay’s asses!”_

And, in one big shouting mass, they burst onto the field.

 

It took Grantaire a second to get adjusted to the lights. It was fully dark out, now, and towering spotlights lit up the pitch, but those weren’t the lights that distracted Grantaire.

In the stands, twinkling lights shone from people’s wands; on one side, the seats were dominated by De Charny’s red and white, on the other, De Molay’s blue and pale gold. It looked like fairies (the ones from Grantaire’s childhood, not the real ones, which had been sorely disappointing to meet in third-year CoMC class) had taken over the stadium.

Very loud fairies, who started shouting the second the teams stepped onto the field. At first it was wordless, but a chant rose up quickly among the De Charny supporters: hundreds of voices screaming _“Red and white will win the fight!” with_ wands waving in time.

They were being conducted by a highly enthusiastic young man standing at the front row. His back was turned to the field (his attention solely on his troops), but his figure would be unmistakable even without the help of the red-and-white Quidditch jacket he wore, which had the name _Bahorel_ and the number _01_ stitched across the back.

Who the fuck else could it have been?

The team, already smiling, could only grin broader. Eponine’s was smug; she said something that was lost in the roar.

 _“What?”_ Grantaire shouted, but that was lost, too, and anyway, Professor Balai had just taken the field and told them to mount up.

Eponine and De Molay’s captain, Claquesous, shook hands. The snitch was released, and the game began.

It was a roaring start (in the case of the crowd, literally). Joly managed to swipe the quaffle right out from Babet’s nose, and he, Bossuet, and Eponine tag-teamed it across the pitch and into the goal within minutes, with the help of a well-aimed bludger from Campion that forced Brujon to abandon course.

“TEN POINTS TO DE CHARNY!” a young voice yelled through the magical megaphone at the Staff Box—Gavroche, Eponine’s little brother, was only a second year, but a very charismatic announcer, as M. Myriel had said when he first allowed Gavroche the job. “And no one’s even broken a sweat, yet! Great work, Chasers. _Anyway_. Looks like—wait, no, the quaffle’s in De Molay possession now, looks like Babet’s got it, he’s dodging past ‘Ponine—I mean Thénardier—ooh, that’s gotta hurt!”

Grantaire had caught sight of a bludger and zoomed over to knock it towards Babet before the chaser could even make it halfway across the field. It smashed right into his side, knocking the breath out of his lungs and—more importantly—the quaffle out of his arm. Eponine dove under him and scooped it up before he had time to recover.

Grantaire scanned he field, looking for other opportunities. He saw Montparnasse high above, scanning for the tiniest flash of gold. Feuilly was, similarly, keeping an eye out, though he prowled lower to the ground, with one eye fixed on Montparnasse.

“Brujon shoots and—is blocked excellently by De Charny’s Madeira, who—KNOCKS THE QUAFFLE TO JOLY HALFWAY ACROSS THE PITCH! Did you _see_ that? I _barely did_ , that was one fast pass—Oh! Looks like Joly’s passed it to Bossuet, but Babet intercepted—“

It went on like that some time, the quaffle going back and forth, with the occasional dodged bludger in-between. Grantaire felt like he was on auto-pilot, his broom zipping around with only a thought, he was weightless, all he could see was where he was going—he could barely hear the din of the stands (though he noticed Bahorel had started up a rowdy chorus of _“Crush the Cocks!”_ ).

“Claquesous blocks a shot from Bossuet and the quaffle is now in De Molay possession—but it looks like Feuilly’s seen the snitch!”

He had; when Grantaire turned to look for Feuilly, their seeker was a red-and-white blur darting across the field. Seconds later, a blue-and-gold flash was chasing after him: Montparnasse.

Grantaire tore his eyes away, searching for a bludger. It was a good thing he did—one was flying right towards him, a stupid move on Guelemer’s part—why hit a bludger at a beater?

Though stupider was Grantaire’s impulse to duck under it instead of hit it at someone.

“Watch out, Ep!” he yelled, tracking the bludger’s path. Eponine whirled, and managed to duck out of the way just in time.

“What the hell, R!”

Grantaire raised his hands in surrender, then flew around to knock another bludger away from Bossuet.

“—Montparnasse right at Feuilly’s heels, they’re neck in neck—the snitch is _right there!_ Montparnasse reaches out and—oh, shit.”

Grantaire saw it happen almost in slow motion: the bludger flew, and flew, and flew, and slammed into Montparnasse’s outstretched arm, snapping it perfectly at the elbow.

Grantaire heard him scream, saw him lose balance, slip off his broom—

They were forty feet up. No one could fall that far.

All thoughts of the game fled from Grantaire’s mind. He dropped his bat, ducked low to his broom, and shot like lightning across the field.

He wasn’t the only one, but he was somehow the fastest, managing to catch Montparnasse an instant before he got off with much worse than a broken arm.

Still, their landing wasn’t smooth. Grantaire barely avoided crashing into the stands, and they tumbled to the grass, both screaming; Grantaire in terror, Montparnasse in what R imagined was unimaginable pain.

Grantaire sat up, wincing at something in his shoulder, just as Feuilly and Claquesous touched down a few yards away.

Gently as he could, Grantaire rolled Montparnasse onto his back. He was shaking, his breath coming in sharp gasps and whimpers, but he was no longer screaming, and he seemed fine apart from the arm, which was bent at an unfortunate angle.

Grantaire looked over his shoulder. “I think—“ he began, but was interrupted when Claquesous hauled him to his feet and knocked him out with a swift fist to the jaw.

 

When he came to about thirty seconds later, a lot had happened.

The first thing he saw was Madame Simplice, the school healer, kneeling over Montparnasse. The next thing, after blinking a few times, was Professor Mestienne (head of De Molay) giving Claquesous what looked like a stern talking-to.

The third thing Grantaire saw, after he managed to focus his vision, was the kindly face of M. Myriel looking down on him with gray eyes full of concern.

“Remember to breathe, Grantaire,” he said. “How’s your head? That was a very noble thing you did.”

Grantaire blinked, frowned. He hadn’t done it to be noble.

“What?” he asked, trying to sit up—“Oh, _fuck._ ”

Something sharp was biting into his shoulder. M. Myriel calmly laid him back down.

“Just relax, Grantaire, you’re alright.”

“What’s—“

“Unfortunately, when you landed your broom splintered. A piece of it lodged in your shoulder. Not a worry, Madame Simple will be with you just as soon as she helps Monsieur Montparnasse.”

Grantaire swallowed a lump in his throat.

“My broom’s broken?”

“I am afraid so.”

“Well,” said Grantaire, after a beat. “At least this is our last game.”

This time, despite M. Myriel’s efforts, he managed to sit up, looking around and expecting to see his friends zipping around overhead.

Instead, he saw them clustered together several meters away on the ground, peering anxiously at him and trying to get past Professor Balai, who had taken it upon herself to make sure no one crowded the fallen players.

Grantaire raised an arm to wave at them, to signal he was fine, they could go back to playing, now, but he jolted at the stab of pain in his shoulder.

Right. Big splinter. _Really_ big splinter.

As he watched (and winced), a tall man in navy robes politely but firmly pushed past the crowd of people attempting to gain access to the injured. “Excuse me,” Uncle Javert said to a frazzled Professor Balai, “That’s my nephew.”

Grantaire was suddenly hyper-aware of how dirty he must be, but there was no time to dust himself off—especially not when he could barely move one of his arms—and, anyway, before he could even try, M. Myriel was going them room and Javert was kneeling beside him (right there in the dirt, who would’ve believed?), putting his hands on Grantaire’s shoulders.

“Grantaire,” said Javert, frowning deeply. “Are you okay?”

“Ouch,” said Grantaire, half-heartedly—Javert had jostled his Really Big Splinter. His uncle started looking him over for injuries with maniac fervor.

“I’m fine,” Grantaire insisted, though now that he knew what was wrong with his shoulder, the more he thought about it the more it hurt.

M. Myriel explained the situation to Javert, who promptly and, despite assurances that Madame Simplice would be available soon, pulled out his wand.

“Did you hit your head, Grantaire?”

“What?”

“When you crashed, did you hit your head?”

Grantaire shook his head.

“Good. Does anything besides your shoulder hurt?”

“Not bad.”

“Grantaire.”

“I’m serious, it’s all fine.”

Even so, Javert said a spell that showed him if the target had any broken bones. Finding none (just like Grantaire had said), he went on to examine the “splinter.”

Grantaire made a point to pay no more attention until the business was over.

By then, Montparnasse had been hauled off to the infirmary, followed by a doglike Claquesous, Professor Mestienne, and a tall, gaunt woman who could only be Montparnasse’s mother. Grantaire was surprised to recognize her—she worked in the Ministry. They’d passed each other almost every day at work that Summer, even smiled once or twice. Guilt wracked Grantaire’s lungs—he may have caught Montparnasse, but it had also been he who’d hit the bludger in the first place.

Most of the patrons had left the stands. Grantaire frowned.

“Why’s everyone gone? The game’s not over, is it?”

“Funny story,” said the dry voice of Eponine. Grantaire’s gaze zeroed in on his team; they’d broken through Professor Balai’s defenses (or, more likely, she’d finally let them past) and stood in a cluster five feet behind Javert, who was still fussing over Grantaire’s (mostly) healed stab wound.

“Bossuet caught the snitch,” sighed Joly, leaning on his broomstick.

Grantaire blinked. “ _Bossuet_ did?”

“It was an accident,” Bossuet insisted.

“How the—“

“I was flying over to make sure everyone was okay, and, I swear, it flew into my hand!”

Feuilly shook his head, part awed, part pissed. “If I’d’ve known Bossuet could do that, we’d’ve traded places ages ago.”

“Anyway, we lost,” said Eponine. “Disqualified.”

The words hung heavy in the air for a few beats.

“At least it’ll make one hell of a story,” said Grantaire, which earned him a disapproving look from his uncle and several laughs from his friends.

“WELL YOU DID IT!” someone yelled from across the field. All heads turned: Joly’s family was coming to them, Bahorel leading the charge with his hands cupped like a megaphone.

“Did what?” Eponine called back.

Now within proper distance, Bahorel said, “You managed to have all the fun without me!”

“Well, how were we supposed to have it with you there?” asked Feuilly, tone mock-disdainful but eyes brimming with happiness. Without further ado Bahorel wrapped him in a hug so rough that Grantaire could feel it all the way from where he sat.

Joly’s parents made a bee-line for Grantaire to ask if he was alright. Javert stood, so Grantaire stood, and it didn’t feel like he’d been in a motorcycle wreck anymore when he did, so he told Joly’s mother he was just fine, not to worry.

Conversation continued, getting more and more lively until Professor Myriel made a point of inviting everyone to dinner at the chateau.

As they filed out in groups, recounting the eventful match joyously now that it was clear no lasting harm had been done (at least not to Grantaire), Grantaire felt a firm hand on his good shoulder.

“Grantaire,” said Javert. They stopped. Grantaire turned. His uncle’s face was barely illuminated in the overflow of spotlights. He looked just as stoic as always, but something bright shone in his eyes, brighter than the stadium—almost alarming to look at.

“Yeah?” said Grantaire.

“You did the right thing,” said Javert, then, “I’m proud of you.”

Grantaire swallowed. In the distance, he heard Joly’s ringing laughter.

“I, er,” he said, wishing his words didn’t fall so flat every time they meant something. Why was it he could talk about nothing and make it sound like his words weighed tons, but when he needed them to count, they never even came close? “Thanks.”

Javert nodded. He seemed to understand. Grantaire hoped he did. “I’m going to head home,” said Javert. “I’ll see you at Graduation.”

“Bye, Uncle Javert.”

Javert nodded, started in the opposite direction, paused after a few steps, turned like he was going to say something else, decided against it, and waved.

Wanting to do something else but unsure what, Grantaire waved back, then ran to catch up with his friends.

 

1/06/01

_Dear Enjolras,_

_In eight days, I’m out of this place._

_Time is so weird, you know? I think what old people say about it is true: it speeds up the older you get. I remember first year took centuries, but it feels like this one’s barely had a month._

_Now, there’s only one week left._

_But I’m trying not to think about it. Live in the moment, that’s what you’re always saying, right?_

_You know, the old Romans had a myth about grasshoppers and the dawn. The dawn, Aurora, fell in love with a beautiful Trojan prince, Tithonus, and stole him off to her palace where he had eternal life and they lived happily and loved each other for decades._

_But the kicker was, Tithonus didn’t have eternal youth, so he still aged, eventually past anything mortals are supposed to. Zeus (for once) took pity, and turned him into a grasshopper, so even though he couldn’t run like he used to he could still make damn fine music._

_Aurora cried, of course, and her tears are why we have the dew._

~~_Sometimes I feel a little like Tithonus._ ~~

_Sorry. That was a tangent._

_School’s almost over for you, too, huh? Probably by the time you get this, you’ll be a free man. (Sorry. I meant to write sooner, but things have been crazy.)_

_Times they are a’changin’. I can only hope things just go up from here._

_Congratulations to you and Cosette. I know everyone says that, but I mean it._

_Take the world by storm for me, will you? I’ll be in Paris. Don’t forget to_

_Write again._

_Your friend,_

_Grantaire_

 

 

“It’s hopeless,” Grantaire announced, tossing his hand aside in disgust. It landed in the grass near a fountain and emitted a flurry of gold sparks—not Grantaire’s best move.

“No, it isn’t,” Joly assured him.

“ _I’m_ hopeless,” Grantaire went on.

“No, you’re not,” said Bossuet and Eponine in unison.

“I’m a terrible wizard.”

“You are _not_ ,” said everyone—Joly, Bossuet, Eponine and Feuilly.

“You’re just caught up in your own head,” Joly said. “You think too much.”

“O, teach me how I should forget to think!” Grantaire cried, plopping down on the rim of the fountain and bending to retrieve his wand.

“There’s no need to be dramatic,” said Eponine. This was not entirely true, for once. Graduation was that afternoon, and Grantaire still couldn’t make a dove.

“But there’s of course every need to quote Shakespeare,” said Feuilly. “In all situations.” He unfolded himself from where he’d been leaning against one of the (many, useless) stone pillars in their part of the gardens and crossed to put a hand on Grantaire’s shoulder. “Listen, R, you’re gonna do fine. It’s just like Joly said. Don’t think about what you want, just make it happen. Give liberty unto thine eyes, and what have you.”

Grantaire tried his best to let his friends make him feel better. He nodded, took a deep breath, closed his eyes—

As soon as he did, all he could see was the disappointed look on his uncle’s face when Grantaire was the only person who couldn’t continue a centuries-old tradition.

He quickly opened his eyes, stood.

“I’ll try one more time,” he said. “Then, fuck it.”

“That’s the spirit!” cheered Joly.

Grantaire raised his wand—

A bird cried out in the warm June sky, piercing through the peaceful morning. Grantaire nearly had a heart attack—he’d not even _thought_ the spell—

It was Superman. She landed on Grantaire’s shoulder, brushed her head affectionately against his cheek, and waggled the letter attached to her leg at him.

The spell was forgotten (or, if Grantaire was being honest, purposely ignored) in his haste to collect the letter. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Eponine roll her eyes.

“Well, we should go get some breakfast, then get ready for the ceremony,” she said.

“My last plate of scrambled eggs,” said Bossuet, wistfully, wiping away a fake(?) tear.

“Plate, singular?” asked Joly, innocently. Bossuet shoved him playfully, which somehow turned into them heading hand in hand to the Great Hall, Eponine laughing at their heels.

Feuilly gave Grantaire one last pat on the shoulder before going after then. No one bothered asking if he’d be along. They know he would, when he was finished. It was an unspoken rule that Grantaire have peace with his letters, even more so than usual with this one:

This one was kinda special, right? His last letter from Enjolras while at school?

Whether it was or not, it felt special.

Grantaire sat back at the fountain, stroked Superman’s forehead for a moment, then broke the seal.

 

09/06/01

_Dear Grantaire,_

_You have the biggest ideas about things._

_Cosette and I graduated last night. It’s the strangest, most amazing feeling._

_You know this means we can do anything now, right?_

_Anything, Grantaire._

_Everything, too, if we try._

_I plan to try very hard._

_Papa’s taking us on one last trip before we set out on our own. For once, there’s no real plan. We’re just gonna do what feels right, I think—take the world by storm, as you said._

_Anyway, Grantaire, listen:_

_After that, Cosette’s moving to Paris. She’s got an internship with Le Voyant—she’s gonna study journalism, I’m sure she’s told you. And that’s wonderful, of course, but it means._

_Grantaire, she’s moving to Paris._

_And I’m going, too._

_You said in your last letter you’ll be in Paris and, well._

_So will we, this time._

_Write back soon,_

_Enjolras_

 

Grantaire’s head was still buzzing when he joined his friends in the seventh years’ designated waiting-place. A medium-sized pavilion in one of the gardens served as an outdoor classroom most of the year, but today it was a makeshift animal pen for the some-400 seventh years who were to graduate within the hour.

“Over there, R!” Joly yelled above the low, excited roar of the crowd, waving him over to where their friends had secured a patch of lawn at one corner of the pavilion, next to a bush with bright blue blooms and puzzle leaves.

“Someone looks happy,” Eponine observed. “Did you get the spell to work?”

“Huh?” asked Grantaire, plopping down on the grass beside Bossuet, who was stroking one of the bush’s petals, delighting in the way it shivered and pressed into his touch. “Oh, the spell. Uh. No.”

“Then—“

“Must’ve been a good letter,” Feuilly said, putting a hand on Eponine’s shoulder and offering Grantaire a smile.

The Professors had set up an elegant stage in a field overlooking the chateau and all its splendor, along with about a million chairs. When the time came, the seventh years filed out in their crisp blue uniforms to form five perfect lines in front of the stage, amidst the tears and clapping of proud family members and friends.

The Headmistress gave the appropriate speech “been a great seven years, hope you all go on to do great things, most importantly have kids and send them here, blah blah blah et cetera,” and then the heads of houses gave their speeches, which were considerably shorter and more heartfelt, and Grantaire nodded along, clapped at all the cues, but he wasn’t listening—he was floating, coasting along on the strange arrhythmic flutter in his chest and stomach.

Was this what the start of a new age felt like?

(Well, considering it was a new age, and this was what he felt like, in a word: Yes.)

He got so caught up in that feeling that he forgot about the Avis charm until it was time to do it.

He froze.

Fuck.

Everyone was raising their wands—Grantaire fumbled with his, thinking frantically, _don’t think about it, R, don’t think about it, think about something else, anything, what the hell was he supposed to think—_

In a shoebox beneath the dirty robes piled in his closet, Grantaire kept a few small but special things:

There was a tiny racecar that he’d played with as a little kid until the wheels broke.

The receipt for his first bike—a real one, no training wheels.

A lock of silver-gold hair that shimmered, still, even after eight years.

His first letter from Enjolras—a response he’d never truly expected to come, and one he’d been shocked to receive only a week later. This was folded carefully in its original envelope.

There were other letters; not many, just the important ones. When he got home, Grantaire would add today’s to the mix, because he was sentimental like that.

_You said in your last letter you’d be in Paris, and, well,_

_So will we, this time._

A thousand pairs of hands burst into applause as four hundred doves burst into the air. Grantaire’s fluttered briefly around his head before soaring off with its mates. He smiled.

And it wasn’t over—wouldn’t be for several hours yet, after they all shook hands about four million times and there was a great feast outside on the grounds, and dancing and cheering, and last farewells (M. Myriel at one point pulled Grantaire to the side and wished him such sincere prosperity that Grantaire had to try really hard not to cry), and proud hugs from Joly’s parents and proud (awkward) shoulder pats from Uncle Javert—

Since nothing in real life was poetic, this part of his life didn’t end as the flock of doves flew towards the sun.

But, hell, if it didn’t feel like it did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as i said, this is the end of Part One, which it will probably only be referred to as in my head. Part Two and any subsequent parts will still be part of this same story; i'm not going in for any series, et cetera. at least, not with the main line. who knows, down the road!
> 
> not sure when part two will begin; i'm very busy the next month or two, but i'll try to get working on it as soon as i'm able. (pro tip: comments really help me get up the courage!). but know that it's coming.
> 
> as always, thank you so much everyone who comments, they truly inspire me to keep working on this. thank you everyone who's given kudos, bookmarked this, and of course thanks to you, who is reading this right now.
> 
> if you like my writing, check out [my novella](https://payhip.com/b/zBLe)! and if you like me, [follow me on tumblr](http://bacchusofficial.tumblr.com/)! thanks again.


	8. December 2001. (aka the magic of firewhiskey, painting, and the Musain Café)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yo it's been a really long time since i've posted, haha, but oh well! i've been busy. thank you guys so much for sticking around, and i hope you enjoy this new chapter! here we are at the start of part 2, kids! wow !

01/12/01

_Dear Enjolras,_

_You’ll never believe it, but Bahorel and I finally have a working dining table. That’s right, no more eating off our laps on the sofa: the Auror Program’s Finest have upgraded to real wooden planks, and matching chairs to boot._

_It didn’t even cost much money! We each chipped in a few sickles and traded them in at the bank for some muggle cash—you have_ _no idea_ _how much money we got (really, you wouldn’t understand if I tried to explain. Purebloods never get how muggle money works). We went to Ikea (it’s a store) and got the finest damn table you’ve ever seen. The rest of our flat might look like shit, but the dining room’s a jewel._

 _The hard part was setting the thing up. Until we realized we could just use_ _reparo_ _. Bahorel almost cried._

_Anyway, training’s going fine. It’s tough, but I don’t hate it. Most of the time._

_Speaking of, I’ve got to go. My break’s almost up._

_Good luck in Greece. Watch out for Chimera. (If you see one, tell Cosette to send me a photo. Actually, tell Cosette I said hi, while you’re at it)._

_Write again,_

_Grantaire_

 

Folding the letter in thirds and tucking it carefully into the pocket of his robes, Grantaire stood up and stretched his arms before leaving a few knuts on his table and smiling at Musichetta as he left the café.

The Musain was, in Grantaire’s opinion, the best place in the world—certainly in Paris. Its large square windows gave a perfect view of the busy streets, giving opportunity for people-watching from the cosy tables inside while one drank their beverage of choice (tea, coffee, _or_ alcohol, the best variety) or ate lunch.

The best thing about the Musain, though, (apart from being equidistance between the Ministry and Grantaire’s apartment) was that it was for wizards _and_ muggles. Grantaire appreciated that. It meant he didn’t have to spend all his time worrying about not breaking the Statute of Secrecy or getting dirty looks from uppity wizards for wearing muggle clothes. For muggles, the Musain was a haven for poets and eccentrics, which meant that wizards didn’t have to worry about getting suspicious looks for wearing robes or writing with quills. Grantaire could stop by whenever he wanted, and not feel an inch of discomfort.

Which was lucky, because Musichetta made a damn good cup of coffee, and, lately, Grantaire had needed more of those than ever.

He had a to-go cup in his hand and took a tired sip as he started down the sidewalk towards the Ministry. On his way out, he ran into another of the café’s regulars, Jean Prouvaire.

It had taken Grantaire months to figure out if they were a muggle or a wizard—they dressed oddly enough to be an outlier to both groups—and even longer to get up the nerve to strike a conversation with them. Their persona, while a little ridiculous, was intimidating all the same, despite how Jean Prouvaire—Jehan, as Grantaire now knew them—couldn’t weigh more than thirty pounds soaking wet, and was nearly shorter than Grantaire.

“Oh, good afternoon, R!” said Jehan, happily, while Grantaire narrowly avoided spilling coffee across their colorful, hand knitted serape. Crisis averted, Grantaire smiled back.

“Hey, Jehan,” he said. Jehan was the only person he’d ever met (besides his uncle) who said “good afternoon” with a straight face. “Sorry I missed you, I gotta run.”

“Auror office?” said Jehan, gesturing at Grantaire’s uniform. Though not exactly the prestigious navy blue robes of a full Auror, trainees wore dark green robe of a similar cut: sleek, utilitarian, with only a knee-length train and tighter sleeves than most civilian robes, along with tight regulation trousers that were meant to be useful in avoiding unfortunate trip-ups or snags, but that Grantaire just thought were uncomfortable.

He smiled, sheepish. Sometimes he hated the way wizards instantly recognized what he was from the uniform. It made him feel like a phony; after all, they didn’t know he wasn’t actually an impressive wizard. Far from it, most days. But, at the same time, without the uniform, Jehan might never have talked to him, so there was that.

“Duty calls,” said Grantaire, wryly, tipping his cup at them.

Jehan’s smile turned sympathetic. “Always working, hm, R?”

“You know me.”

“Well, this Friday, you should come to the poetry slam,” they said. At Grantaire’s confused look, they tapped a flier taped to the Musain door. “I’m MCing.”

Grantaire’s heart tugged unhappily. It’d be so good to be away from the Ministry, away from the apartment. But Friday was the end of the week. He usually passed out as soon as he dropped his bag at home.

“I’ll see what I can do,” he said, doubtfully.

“Do,” said Jehan, opening the door with a smile. “Bring your roommate, too!”

The door closed behind them with a little chime. Grantaire sighed, and kept walking.

 

“So?” said Bahorel. “How was your lunch?”

Grantaire slumped into the little desk across from Bahorel’s and dropped his head on a stack of papers.

A wadded up receipt hit Grantaire squarely on the cheek. It was Bahorel’s way of showing sympathy.

“Did you write to Enjolras?” Bahorel asked. “That usually puts you in a better mood.”

Grantaire nodded, hoping Bahorel wouldn’t want to talk about Enjolras.

“Hey, I thought you said he was moving to Paris.”

“He’s still traveling,” said Grantaire, voice muffled by his paper-cluttered desk. Who would’ve known that Auror training would be so much filing? Sure, some days were reserved for advanced Defense Against the Dark Arts classes, _Offense_ Against the Dark Arts classes (which Grantaire had never even heard of before, and had received more bruises from than Quidditch could ever dream of giving), Potions, even something called Mental Agility Training which was really just solving long, convoluted logic puzzles for hours at a time. But, when they weren’t busy frying their brains to a crisp with all that exercise, they were numbing them to death filing paperwork so the Real Aurors didn’t have to bother with it.

It was enough to make Grantaire want to jam his own eyes out with his wand, most days.

“Traveling, huh?” Bahorel prompted. Grantaire wondered how long he’d been sunk into his own misery for, to make Bahorel get that look in his eye, the one that was almost worry, the one he usually tried not to let Grantaire see.

“Yeah,” said Grantaire, forcing himself to sit up. “He’s in Greece with his family. He said they’ll be back by the New Year, though. His sister’s starting a job with _Le Voyant_.” He couldn’t help the doubt that crept into his voice. Enjolras had given dates for their arrival half a dozen times before, and kept postponing. And there was no reason for Grantaire to be disappointed by that, obviously—and he wasn’t. After all, the Fauchelevents were enjoying their freedom with the world at their fingertips. And Grantaire was stuck here—happy for them. Happy for them.

“Sounds fancy,” said Bahorel. Grantaire nodded, scrubbing his face with both hands.

“Well,” said Bahorel, at length. “It’s no Greece, but Joly sent me an owl during lunch inviting us to drinks tonight.”

Grantaire peeked at him between his fingers. “What time do we get off tonight?”

“Six.”

Grantaire’s brows raised, interested.

“But we also come back tomorrow at six. The _bad_ six.”

Grantaire sighed, and Bahorel sighed, and for a while the two of them did actual work in glum, comfortable silence.

Then, at last, Grantaire looked up. “You know what?” he said. “In the words of Merlin, ‘fuck it.’ I miss my friends, and I need a damn drink.”

“I don’t think Merlin ever said that,” said Bahorel, but his laughter was loud and delighted, and somehow they managed to get though way more paperwork than usual.

 

Their friends’ pub of choice was a wizarding shithole tucked into an alley flanked by muggle shitholes. But the drinks were cheap, and they got to see each other, so no one gave a damn.

It was called The Rusty Bucket, and there was a sign behind the bar, required by law, that read “No Affiliation With The Leaky Cauldron.”

That night, everyone was there but Feuilly, who had to work early and wasn’t, in his own words, “a fucking lunatic,” and Eponine, who said she didn’t want to have to drag their sorry asses home again. It was a good time, regardless, even if Grantaire kept getting pangs of dread about the next morning.

By the fourth round of firewhiskey, Grantaire forgot all about being an Auror. He was too busy trying to get Floriél to tattoo a dragon across his ribs.

“Come _on_ ,” he needled. “You’re so good at it. Your shop’s just a few blocks from here, we could just—“

“Absolutely not, R,” they laughed, taking a sip of their drink. They were so cool, Grantaire thought. “You’re drunk. _I’m_ drunk.”

“But it’ll look so _cool_.”

Floriél snorted. “Come back when we’re not somewhere called The Rusty Bucket.”

 _“Hey,”_ Joly called from down the bar. “Are you hating on Rusty?”

“He loves Rusty more than he loves me,” Bossuet complained into his drink, just because he knew it’d get him a sloppy kiss on the cheek. They were so stupidly happy that it made Grantaire stupidly happy, too.

He was still smiling when, hours later, he stumbled home (alone; Bahorel had gone home with some girl at the bar), too drunk to try to apparate. He’d only make that mistake once. 

It wasn’t until he was finally taking off that awful uniform that he remembered the letter tucked carefully into his pocket.

He took it out, smoothed the wrinkles, stumbled around his room for an envelope. He addressed it neatly, then looked around and was pleased to see that Superman hadn’t flown out to hunt, yet. She must have been waiting for him to get home.

He petted her head, gave her a treat, fastened the letter to her leg.

“Thanks, girl,” he said, and watched her fly out the window.

It was late. He didn’t even want to look at the clock, but he was too restless to fall into bed.

Almost on their own, his feet led him to his closet, where a battered old shoebox was tucked neatly against the back corner.

He sat on the floor and took out a photograph, foxed at the corners but still showing a young man standing on a rock in front of a dragon.

Enjolras smiled, and waved. Grantaire’s breath caught in his throat.

“This is stupid,” Grantaire muttered, putting the photo and the box away, and he laughed at himself while he took something else out of the closet; a shitty easel he’d gotten for his twelfth birthday and the remains of some shittier paints he’d bought himself a couple years ago.

He’d never much liked to paint, but that had been before he realized how good it felt; the mess of it, the slide of the color across rough canvas, the stain beneath his fingernails—there was nothing better, no alcohol, no letter (well, some letters).

He spent the night painting an Opaleye from memory. That was where Bahorel found him around five a.m. when he shook him awake for work, saying, “God, we’re both a fuckin’ mess, huh?”

Grantaire’s laugh sounded more like a groan, and before he stood up, he ran a light finger through the still-wet paint, just to make sure it wasn’t real.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks, as always, to kudosers, to commenters, and to you.
> 
> if you like my work, consider checking out [my novella](http://payhip.com/b/zBLe)! it's about apollo and dionysus going on a road trip to save the world/argue a lot about pop music.


	9. Still December 2001. (aka dyeing your hair green and writing poetry)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we're back, baby!
> 
> real note: please excuse my spanish, it's from two years of southern public school and cultural osmosis so if anything's wrong let me know!

Most people would be honored that the Minister of Magic made time every Wednesday to have lunch with them. 

More often than not, Grantaire found Wednesday lunch with his uncle exhausting.

He tried to eat his sandwich as nondescriptly as possible, praying Javert would, if not stop staring him down, then at least _only_ stare him down, and not voice whatever it was on his mind.

But Javert had a big mind. And a big voice. And he’d already finished his own sandwich.

Grantaire knew he was in for it when his uncle steepled his fingers on his big oak desk, squared his shoulders, and said, “Grantaire.”

Slowly, Grantaire lowered his sandwich.

For some reason, Javert’s office had always made him feel about four feet tall. Maybe because the first time he’d been in it, he _had_ been four feet tall. Maybe it was the view of Paris out the large window behind Javert’s desk framing his uncle in all that sprawling history. 

Or maybe it was because the many walls laden with awards and medals and framed newspaper articles and photographs made Grantaire wonder how a man so apparently Great could be the same man who’d raised him as a teenager, who’d had a painting Grantaire did when he was eleven hanging on his dining room wall for going on eight years, who’d used to read him stories before bed and do all the different voices. 

Whatever the case, Grantaire had never felt comfortable in Javert’s office, least of all when the man was looking at him like That.

“…Javert,” Grantaire acknowledged, ominously.

“Grantaire,” said Javert, again. “I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”

Oh no, it was worse than Grantaire thought. He’d been dreading this moment since he was fourteen. It wasn’t that he was uncomfortable with his bisexuality, it was just that he was afraid of how long it would take to explain such a thing to his uncle. But if he was going to do something so exhausting, at least he was already exhausted to begin with.

“Okay,” said Grantaire, a verbal knuckle-crack.

“You know that I—“ Javert pressed his steepled fingertips briefly to his nose and took a deep breath, restarted. “You know that you are… my nephew.”

“Yes, I know I’m your nephew.”

“We’ve known each other a long time.”

“All my life, actually.”

“I mean, in our time… together, I like to think we are decently close, wouldn’t you say the same?”

They never talked like this, all touch-feely. They were bad at it. _Javert_ was bad at it. But he was clearly trying, so Grantaire tried, too.

“I… yes,” he said. “Yes. I think so.”

“Your mother—“ Oh, God, please don’t let Javert bring his mother into this.

“Is your sister?” Grantaire supplied.

“Yes, but—no, that’s not what I was going to—don’t interrupt me.”

They were probably going to be here for a while. Grantaire took a bite of his sandwich.

“Your mother—and father—entrusted you to me under the promise that I would keep you safe, look after you. And I know you’re off by yourself now, living alone—“

“With Bahorel.”

Hard look. “—living alone, advancing your career. You’re doing very well.”

“But?”

Javert tapped his fingers together. “Even though you are no longer under my roof, I still consider you to be under my care. Which is why I feel… it is my obligation… to ask you—“

“Oh my God, Uncle Javert. Look, you don’t have to hurt yourself. I’m bisexual, alright?”

Javert blinked. “What?”

“It means—“

“I know what it means, that’s not what I was going to ask you about.” He seemed to realize that was insensitive, and amended. “Which is to say, thank you for telling me, of course.”

“Oh,” said Grantaire. “So you’re not. You now.” He gestured. “Angry? Confused?”

“Why would I be either of those things?”

“I don’t know,” said Grantaire, not sure why he felt so defensive now. “I just—you’re so—I don’t know.”

Javert looked at Grantaire like a particularly frustrating puzzle. “Grantaire,” he said. “I’m gay.”

There was no word for the sound Grantaire made.

“This is not what I wanted to talk about.”

Thank _God_.

“What I wanted to say was—well?”

“Was what?” Now that Grantaire knew what it _wasn’t_ , he was a hundred percent sure it couldn’t possibly be worse.

Javert tilted his head and asked, abrupt, “Are you happy?”

Grantaire had been wrong. His four-foot-in-the-office status downgraded to two feet.

“Am I—happy?”

Javert waited. Like Grantaire was supposed to know how to answer something like that.

“Why do you ask?”

“You just seem so tired all the time.”

“I am tired all the time.”

“It’s more than that,” Javert amended. “I’ve noticed for the past—while—that you seem apathetic about things.”

“Apathetic?”

“I was speaking to M. Fraser about you—“ Grantaire flinched. “—and he seemed to agree. He said he’s noticed you being quieter than usual, and—“

“Oh, God, did he tell you I came in hungover the other day because I know it was a mistake, _trust_ me—“

Javert’s eyebrows shot up dangerously. _“You came in hungover?”_

“Uh,” said Grantaire. “No.”

“Do you have any idea how badly that reflects upon the ministry?”

“I won’t make a habit of it.”

“See that you don’t.” Javert took a tired breath. “But you still haven’t answered my question.

“Am I happy?” said Grantaire, dryly.

“You don’t have to talk to me. I know plenty of professionals who would be glad to—“

“No, I don’t need—“ Grantaire squeezed his eyes shut. “I don’t _need_ that, Uncle Javert, I’m _fine_.”

“I know it can be stressful to start out on you own, and Auror training is very difficult. Lots of young people in your position find themselves depressed—“

“I’m not _depressed_ ,” Grantaire snorted. Javert’s lips thinned.

“Even so,” he said. “Perhaps it would be good for you to—“

“I said I’m _fine_ —“

“You know you can tell me anything.”

“No, I can’t.”

He didn’t mean to say it, but he meant it. What was he supposed to say? Tell the Minister of Magic, the wonder of the Auror office, _“I don’t want to do this anymore, I never wanted to,”_ after all the trouble he’d put Javert and everyone else through? No. No way. Grantaire could never tell his uncle _that_ , even if it would explain how fucking bone tired he was.

Javert stared at him, speechless, while Grantaire looked at his sandwich wrappers with shame burning in his throat.

Javert fell back in his chair, defeated. “Alright,” he said. “Alright. You’re fine. Of course.” He picked up his wand off the desk and flicked it; their trash from lunch floated into a bin in the corner. “I’ll see you soon, then.”

When Grantaire stood, his legs felt wobbly, and he didn’t know where to look, what to say. He felt like he’d just had the top layer of his skin scraped off. He nodded curtly at his uncle, muttered a “Goodbye,” stumbled to the door.

“Just—“ said Javert, and Grantaire’s shoulders tensed as he turned back, one hand on the door handle. “Get some rest.”

“Okay,” said Grantaire, and left.

 

Already sitting outside the ministry classroom where they were about to get their asses kicked by Offense Against the Dark Arts class, Bahorel held up a hand as he saw Grantaire approach.

“How was lunch, R?” he asked, scooting over to give Grantaire room on the bench.

Grantaire sat carefully. Before he could stop himself, he blurted, “Bahorel, do you think I’m depressed?”

Bahorel’s expression disappeared, and his mouth moved without words a while before he sucked air through his teeth and countered, “Do _you_ think you’re depressed?”

Not reassuring. “My uncle does.”

“And you…?”

“No,” said Grantaire. He gave a short laugh. “ _No_ , I don’t—I’m not depressed! Depressed people think about dying all the time and dye their hair green and write sad poetry.”

Bahorel tilted his head in a way horrifyingly similar to how Javert had shortly before. It was the most serious Grantaire had ever seen him. “Not all of them,” he said.

Grantaire was saved from responding by their instructor bursting from the classroom and barking at them to get a move on.

 

05/12/01

_Dear Grantaire,_

_Congratulations on your new table, I’m sure you and Bahorel are thrilled. I trust you’ve already named me Godfather; I expect the papers in no less than seven business days._

_No Chimera, unfortunately, but the Mediterranean is just as exciting. We saw a sea serpent on our fishing excursion yesterday. Its eyes were so green. Cosette took a photo, but it simply did no justice. You’ll have to see one, some day._

_I’m sorry to hear about training. I wish they would give you more breaks. But you’ll be done, soon, anyway, won’t you? It’s just a few more years. You’re very stubborn, I’m sure you can stick it out that long._

_At the very least, stick it out ’til New Years. That’s when Cosette and I will be in Paris, and we’ll need someone to show us around so we don’t get lost._

_Do you know, Grantaire, I don’t think we’d recognize each other if we were to pass each other by on the street. I mean, we haven’t seen each other since we were ten. Ten! Do you believe it? This Christmas, it’ll be nine years since we met._

_I’m glad we met when we did. Aren’t you?_

_Write back soon,_

_Enjolras_

 

“He thinks I wouldn’t recognize him,” Grantaire scoffed, folding the letter up and putting it in the pocket of his robes. 

Eponine turned her attention from the pretty girl a few seats down on the train. “Who?”

“Enjolras.”

She snorted. “After how long you’ve been crushing on his ass? Please.”

Grantaire had a sudden coughing fit. He blinked rapidly. “I beg your pardon?”

It was their stop. They stepped off, fought their way through the crowd until they reached a blocked off tunnel labeled SEWER.

Eponine opened a side door and bowed Grantaire inside. He grimaced, rolled his eyes, entered the tunnel. It wasn’t a real sewer, of course. They just had to label it something no self-respecting muggle would want to go poking around.

Which meant he and Eponine looked like self-disrespecting muggles. But what was new about that?

The dark tunnel soon opened onto “the Sewers,” a sprawling underground glorified strip mall where Parisian wizards shoved all their magic shops.

They talked about each others’ weeks while they walked the couple blocks to Eponine’s work; the broomstick store, _Spinners_.

It was barely midday, but some divine grace had given Grantaire and the other trainees the whole Friday off. (Perhaps not so divine. Grantaire had the sinking feeling it was something to do with his uncle, and the conversation they’d had Wednesday.) 

He’d slept as late as his body could, which was only about nine, then fucked around at the apartment for a while before realizing: he’d been so busy doing things he didn’t want to do the last few months that now that he had time to do anything he wanted, he didn’t know what to do.

So he’d gone to Eponine’s, and she’d told him to fuck off because she had work, and now they were walking into her workplace together.

“I gotta show you something,” she said once she clocked in, leading Grantaire to a back room stacked with boxes. 

“Wow,” said Grantaire. “Boxes.”

She didn’t bother coming back, dragging a long thin package out of the back and setting it on a work table. 

“Open it.”

Grantaire did—cautiously, though, wary of boxes after the Great Prank War of 1999. He pushed aside scrunched up parchment until he could see what was underneath, then.

Froze.

“Holy shit.”

“I know, right?” Eponine gloated. “It’s a brand new model. They’re releasing it Monday, but they sent us some in advance.”

“Can I—“

“Just be careful with it.”

Grantaire gently lifted the sleek broomstick from the long thin package. It was light without feeling flimsy, and the finish was smooth like lacquer. At the handle, fine gold lettering etched the word—

“ _Tarasque_ ,” Eponine said. “Supposed to be the fastest French model yet. Certainly the prettiest, right?”

Grantaire gripped the broom tightly. “I want one.”

She snorted. “Yeah, sure. You got four-hundred-fifty-seven galleons lying around?”

Grantaire made a low, mournful noise, while Eponine pried the broom from his grasp and repackaged it. “So that’s what’s new with me,” she said. “Don’t tell _anyone_ , I wasn’t supposed to show it. Even the employees don’t know.” She tucked the box back into its hiding place, then led him back out into the store room.

He missed flying. He hadn’t flown since school—since he’d broken his broom. Being here, surrounded by brooms and Quidditch gear and miscellaneous flying equipment, filled Grantaire with nostalgia. He didn’t know how Eponine could stand it. 

Of course, she got paid.

They restocked the broom oil (well, Eponine did; Grantaire handed her stuff), occasionally pausing to answer a customer question in bored unison (“Excuse me, where are the trimmers?” “Back corner.”), or deal with a complaint (“I wan’t to speak to your manager.” “I _am_ the manager.”). It was boring, but it beat being home alone doing nothing. Grantaire didn’t know what the hell he was going to do tonight.

“Oh!”

Eponine jumped, dropping a vial of _Bertram’s Best._ She glared at him.

“What?”

“Jehan’s got a poetry slam tonight at the Musain.”

“Who’s got where?”

“We should go,” said Grantaire. “You’d like them. You’d like it there.”

“Since when do you like poetry?”

“I’ve recently been told I’m depressed.”

That made Eponine laugh for a long time, but it also made her agree to go, on the condition they round up the others, too. 

Grantaire couldn’t remember being so excited about something in a long, long time.

 

No one had ever told Grantaire that poetry could be like _that_.

They walked in the Musain, all seven of their motley crew, and found the place lit by candles and dimmed bar lights, with a canopy of gold fairy lights around a tiny stage someone had set up in the back room, which Musichetta led them to while taking their drink orders.

“R!” Jehan shouted. They were very loud when they wanted to be. They managed to gracefully shove their way through the modest crowd between the stage and Grantaire's friends’ table. There, they planted their hands on the table’s surface and fixed Grantaire with a broad smile.

A broad smile that might, under certain light, be considered evil. But such was Jehan’s charm.

“I’m so glad you made it!” they said. “And thanks for bringing all your friends!”

“Yeah,” grinned Grantaire, “All seven of them. This is—“

“Bahorel,” Bahorel said, leaning in with one arm on the table and the other offering a handshake, smile debonair. “And you are?” 

Jehan’s smile turned coy, accepted the hand but, instead of shaking it, brought it to their lips. “Jean Prouvaire,” they said. “Jehan will do. They/them.”

Grantaire wasn’t sure he appreciated that line of conversation, particularly considering he’d been about to introduce Eponine, not Bahorel. But thankfully, the rest of the introductions went smoothly (or less _smooth_ ly, as it were), even if Feuilly’s was a little stilted for some reason. He’d arrived later than the rest, after working a long shift—poor guy was probably exhausted.

When Grantaire went to introduce Bossuet and Joly, he found that they’d disappeared. “And this is—oh. Uh. Never mind. They’re gone.”

“They’re at the bar,” Eponine supplied, smirking. Never a good sign. They all looked over in unison at Joly and Bossuet, who were laughing at something Musichetta said.

“Well, I’m sure I’ll meet them eventually,” Jehan breezed. “Thank you all so much for coming. I’ve got to run, now, we’re about to start.” And they slipped away, back to the stage.

As he watched them go, Grantaire saw someone light a candle, which reminded him of something.

“Oh, um, everyone,” he said, leaning in a little. “Just FYI, there are muggles here, so…”

“Aw, look at you,” said Floriél, returning from the bar with a concoction the same brilliant red as their hair was this week. “Little Auror, worrying over the Statute of Secrecy.” 

Sufficiently shamed, Grantaire was saved having to find a comeback by Jehan’s voice over the mic.

“Welcome, all!” they said in a voice like honeyed wine. “So kind of you to make it out on a beautiful winter night like this, about to be made more beautiful still by the performances lined up for…”

They were all incredible. Grantaire sat spellbound the whole time, even when one guy about their age with curly black hair and bright eyes got up and did a piece in Spanish, which Grantaire didn’t understand, except he _did_ because the man’s voice was like fire lapping at the trunks of an old, old forest (Feuilly and Floriél enjoyed it uproariously, he’d have to ask them about what it meant later).

It was decades and it was no time at all when it was over, and after the cheering died down Musichetta politely kicked everyone out with an, “Okay, it’s almost midnight, get out before you all see my curse transform me into a beautiful maiden and what have you,” and the muggles laughed but the wizards were uneasy. 

Then outside on the sidewalk Jehan caught up to their group and invited them to an afterparty at a bar called the Corinthe. 

And that was where Grantaire was, now, drunk and well on his way to joy.

Feuilly and he sat at the bar, Feuilly telling him about how his boss from his job at the herbology center had walked into his job at the parchment depot, handed him a bucket of dragon blooms, and left without more than a “See to these,” and how now Feuilly had a highly illegal plant growing in his apartment.

“You seem a lot happier about that than someone might expect,” said Grantaire.

“Yeah,” Feuilly sighed, downing a shot of whiskey without batting an eye. He wiped his mouth and said, “I love that awful fucking job.”

A force of nature careened up to the bar beside Grantaire and barely managed to catch himself before he toppled over it. “Excuse me,” he said to the bartender. Grantaire realized it was the guy who’d performed in Spanish earlier. He was even more explosive up close. “D’you have any ice cream hidden away back there? No? Oh. Well, I’ll have a coke, then.”

He accepted his coke, opened it, and, alarmingly, threw all his blinding focus on Grantaire. 

“Hi!” he said. “Nice to meet you, beautiful. You’re Jehan’s friend, right? I’m Courfeyrac.” He held out his free hand.

Grantaire shared a look with Feuilly, who snorted and ordered himself another drink. 

“Yeah,” said Grantaire, shaking Courfeyrac’s hand. It was a very firm, precise handshake. “That’s me. I’m Grantaire. People call me R.”

“R,” Courfeyrac repeated. “How mysterious.”

“I liked your poem.”

It should not be possible for Courfeyrac’s face to light up more than it already was, and yet it did. _“¡Gracias!”_ he cheered. _“¿Tu hablas español? ¡Es magnifico! ¿Tu—“_

Let it be known Feuilly was a benevolent deity, who saw the dawning horror on Grantaire’s face and quickly cut in.

“ _Lo siento, él no habla español. Grantaire es solamente un amante.”_

“Ah,” said Courfeyrac, knowingly. “A lover. I see! I have a friend like that, too.”

“What’s your friend’s name?” Feuilly asked, indulgently, recognizing someone who enjoyed the sound of his own voice.

“Enjolras,” said Courfeyrac. “And yours, my friend?”

“Feuilly—wait, what?” Slowed by alcohol, it took Feuilly a beat to catch up. 

Grantaire had already barreled past the finish line, suddenly dead sober. _“Enjolras?”_

Courfeyrac raised his eyebrows and stifled a laugh. “Oh, no,” he said. “What’s he done to you guys?”

“Nothing,” said Feuilly. “Well—it’s a long story. See, R—“

“Enjolras Fauchelevent?” said Grantaire, again. “You know him?”

“Geez,” Courfeyrac grinned. “He must’ve done something terrible to you! I formally apologize on his behalf. He can be very… expressive.” He sipped his coke. “But to answer your question, yes. I am fortunate to know Enjolras Fauchelevent well. We went to Hogwarts together, been best friends since first year—er.” Courfeyrac paused, glancing at Feuilly. “Is he alright?”

Grantaire was having a hard time not sliding off his stool into a puddle on the ground. Because that would be really stupid, huh? He was being stupid. What, so this guy knew Enjolras, so what? That wasn’t any reason to start having palpitations or to break into a cold sweat. Surely, plenty of people knew Enjolras. He was probably very popular. A force of nature, and what have you.

“Like I said,” said Feuilly, carefully. “It’s a long story.”

Courfeyrac’s eyes glittered with curiosity.

“I, uh,” said Grantaire. Try again. Better, this time. “Enjolras and I have written to each other since we were ten.”

“Ooh, like pen pals!”

No. “Yeah, sort of.”

“I had a pen pal at Durmstrang once, wonderful girl, I think she’s in Giant Country now. We drifted apart pretty quickly—after the assignment was over—but of course Enjolras kept his up, he never does things by halves. Where did you go to school? Beauxbato—“

“It’s not a school thing,” Grantaire interrupted before it killed him. “We were neighbors when we were little, and then I moved to live with Uncle Ja—with my uncle, but we still wanted to be friends so we wrote to each other and now we’re… adults, I guess.” The story felt stupider and stupider the longer Grantaire had to tell it. Especially when Courfeyrac listened in rapture.

“Wow!” said Courfeyrac. “That’s incredible! This long?”

“Nine years, almost.”

Courfeyrac laughed, bubbly and joyous. “Feuilly was right, you _are_ a Romantic. And so is Enjolras! I’ve always known it. This is the most wonderful news I’ve ever had.” He looked around the bar. “Jehan!” he called across the room. “Come here! Grantaire knows our fearless leader!”

Jehan materialized beside them. “You don’t mean Enjolras?”

“Who else?”

“Oh, that’s just sublime, R! Enjolras is one of my closest friends, a true Citizen. Where did you meet?”

Grantaire meant to give a brief, noncommittal answer in place of having to retell the story—he was overwhelmed, claustrophobic, and most of all reeling over the question that had just popped into his head and now popped out of his mouth:

“So you mean—Enjolras has never mentioned me? To—to either of you?”

A distinct pause, a lapse in all their breaths. Feuilly’s hand came to rest on Grantaire’s shoulder. 

“Well,” said Courfeyrac, for the first time obviously choosing his words with care. “Enjolras is a very private person—vocal, but. Private.”

“Right,” said Grantaire. He understood. But. “What—what about Cosette? Or Mr. Fauchelevent?” Stop, stop, _stop_ Grantaire, you’re embarrassing yourself, you’re grasping at straws, you sound so pathetic, so he’s never talked about you, that’s fine, so what? That doesn’t mean anything. Just because you tell your friends everything doesn’t mean everyone does, and furthermore this is the first you’re hearing of Courfeyrac and Jehan in relation to Enjolras, and they’re apparently best friends, so—

“You know Cosette, too?” Jehan exclaimed. “Oh, you’re so lucky, R! She’s so bright—“

“Er,” said Courfeyrac. “I never made a habit of small-talk with Fauchelevent. Most of our conversations were in Defense Against the Dark Arts, where he communicated to me mostly indirectly or through prolonged sighs.”

“Courfeyrac was a wild boy in school,” said Jehan, solemnly. 

“Excuse me? Who’s the one who stole a mandrake fifth year?”

Jehan said, coolly, looking at their blue fingernails, “ _Il Capitano_ deserved to be liberated.”

While they were occupied, Feuilly said quietly into Grantaire’s ear, “You okay, R? We can go if—“

“OH MY GOD!”

They all jumped. It didn’t seem possible that such a powerful sound could come out of someone with Jehan’s frame. 

“ _Courfeyrac,”_ they said. “The _box.”_

“What box,” said Courfeyrac.

“The _box_. Of letters! Under his bunk—“

“ _Oh,”_ said Courfeyrac. He looked at Grantaire, and his eyes widened. _“OhhHHh!”_

_“R.”_ Thin hands gripped Grantaire’s shoulders. Jehan stared directly into his eyes. “You have no idea how long we have been trying to uncover this mystery.”

“Centuries,” said Courfeyrac.

“Millenia.”

“ _Eons.”_

“They must be your letters, R!” Jehan shook him excitedly. “This is such a good night!”

For once in his life, Grantaire’s brain was blank.

Thankfully, Jehan seemed to realize Grantaire was overwhelmed. Their smile turned gentle. “Anyway,” they said, giving Grantaire’s shoulders a light squeeze. “I’m so glad we all know Enjolras. We’ll have to throw him a party when he gets to Paris!” They kissed Grantaire’s cheeks. “now if you’ll all pardon me, I was in conversation with your friend Bahorel about a Robert Graves translation. I’ll see you later!” They blew them each a kiss, drifting back from whence they’d came.

“I think I’m going to head out,” said Grantaire. “It’s late, and I’ve had a long week.”

“Ah,” said Courfeyrac, knowingly, as Grantaire payed his tab. “You’re training to be an Auror, right?”

Instinctively, Grantaire checked that he wasn’t wearing his uniform. 

“No, sorry, it’s just—Jehan talks about you often.” Courfeyrac shrugged. “They like you.”

Despite the sick feeling he had, Grantaire smiled back. He couldn’t help it. It was clear that Courfeyrac was one of those rare, Good people you couldn’t help but like. Grantaire shook his hand. “It was nice to meet you,” he said.

Courfeyrac squeezed his hand. “The same to you,” he said. “I’m sure we’ll see each other again very soon. Tell Enjolras I said hello next time you write, would you?”

Grantaire laughed, small, a little self-conscious, and pushed a curl that had fallen out of his ponytail behind his ear. “Yeah,” he said. “I will. You, too.”

His goodbyes were brief. Most of his friends were occupied (Bahorel with Jehan, Eponine and Floriél MIA, Bossuet and Joly _still_ talking to Musichetta, who’d tagged along seemingly just for them), and Grantaire really wanted to breathe air that didn’t stink of cigarettes.

“Hey, R! Wait up!”

He stopped at the corner and waited for Feuilly to jog up to him. Feuilly was wrapped in his thick green cloak and a lined denim jacket, and as he caught up he stuffed his hands into knitted gloves Grantaire recognized as Joly’s work from sixth year. Grantaire had a matching pair.

“So,” said Feuilly, as they crossed the street together. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No,” said Grantaire, then started to talk about it. “I just don’t _get_ it. To each their own, of course, but after nine years, you’d think he’d _mention_ me to his _best friends._ You practically know him by osmosis from how much I talk about him. And another thing, he’s never told me about either of them! I talk about the dumb shit you guys do all the time—no offense.”

Feuilly shrugged. “None taken. Dumb shit is my specialty.” He kicked a rock and smiled, then frowned. “R,” he said. “I know why you’re upset, but you _do_ know that everyone thinks and prioritizes differently than everyone else in the world, right?”

“ _Of course_ I know that, but that doesn’t stop me from worrying that he doesn’t care about me anywhere close to how I care about him and that I’ve really just been annoying him all these—“

He stopped walking, the rush of feelings subsiding to a trickle even as he realized he meant every word, right down to the last, breathed shakily into the cold night air. “Years.”

Feuilly chewed his lip for a second. “He kept your letters,” he pointed out.

“Those could be anyone’s letters.”

“You’re someone.”

“I’m sure he just keeps all his letters.”

“Grantaire,” said Feuilly. “At a certain point, love is just blind faith. If you can’t even bring yourself to believe he’ll keep your letters, maybe he _shouldn’t_ care about you—and maybe you don’t care about him as well as you think.”

Grantaire scrubbed a hand over his face. “Damn it, Feuilly,” he said. “Always with the hard truths.”

Feuilly spread his hands. “My second specialty, right under ‘dumb shit.’” He repocketed his hands and knocked his shoulder into Grantaire’s, starting their walk again. 

Something small hit Grantaire’s cheek—he swatted at it, thinking it was a bug, but it was actually a balled up scrap of parchment.

“Ouch, what the hell?”

“What is it?”

Grantaire uncrinkled the parchment.

“Oh,” he said. He laughed, though wanted to groan. “Ah, it’s a message from Bahorel. Evidently, my home is occupied tonight. Do you think I can crash at your place?”

“Yeah,” said Feuilly. His demeanor shifted drastically from even seconds ago. “Yeah, of course.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.” Feuilly forced a smile. Forced. 

“It’s just that before I asked you, you were pretty cheerful, and now you look like I sold your illegal dragon blooms on the black market.”

It was supposed to make him laugh, but all Feuilly said was, “Oh. I.. sorry. It’s not. It’s not about you. You know you’re welcome any time, even if it is a shit hole.”

Grantaire knocked shoulders with him—hey, it’d worked for Feuilly a minute ago. “What’s up?”

Ten solid seconds of silence. Then, “Do you think he’s going home with Jehan?”

Thinking uncomfortably of the note, Grantaire admitted, “Yeah.”

“Oh,” said Feuilly, looking straight ahead as they walked. “Well, that’s. Good. I like Jehan. Jehan is kind.”

He meant it. Feuilly didn’t lie about what he thought of people, good or bad, to their faces or otherwise. But he looked so sad.

Grantaire wished he was better at this. He tried to emulate Feuilly. Which probably wasn’t the best, since Feuilly was the upset one. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Eh,” said Feuilly. “Nothing to say. I’m not even upset—seriously, I’m not—I just—“ He pushed a hand through his hair and breathed. Grantaire knew the emotion well. “It’s been a long week, you know?”

“You said it,” Grantaire agreed. “Want to go home and tell me about your illegal plant?”

“Hell yeah.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks to those for sticking with this despite my downright criminal updating schedule. please know that this Will continue until it's finished, don't you worry about that.
> 
> thanks additionally to new readers! i hope you enjoyed the ride so far and stay on for the rest
> 
> additional additional thanks to people who comment! there's no one like you guys to keep me motivated to write the next part. i love you all.
> 
> say hi on tumblr @bacchusofficial


	10. Christmas, 2001 (aka, just like new times)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welcome to christmas in august my beautiful friends

15/12/01

_Dear Enjolras,_

_Today is the last day of my first season of Auror training. Which is good, except I have no idea what I’m going to do with my time now._

~~ _I wish you were here._ ~~

~~ _How could you think I wouldn’t recognize you?_ ~~

_I’m feeling weird already._

_Is it warm, where you are? I hope it is. I know you get grumpy when it’s cold. It’s cold in Paris, but that doesn’t bother me. It’s just, it gets dark so early now._

_Oh well. I don’t know why I’m complaining. I’ll probably spend most of my time sleeping, anyway._

_Write again._

_Your friend,_

_Grantaire_

_P.S. ~~I met your friends~~_

~~ _Courfeyrac says hello_ ~~

~~ _You’ll never guess who I ran into the other_ ~~

~~ _Your friends are_ ~~

_Courfeyrac says hello._

 

19/12/01

_Dear Grantaire,_

_It’s official. Courf knows every single person on earth or under heaven. How did you meet?? That’s a story I must hear._

_Please don’t devote_ _all_ _your time to sleep. While it’s important you get a Proper amount of rest, oversleeping can be just as detrimental as undersleeping. I suggest, in your spare time, you take up some kind of exercise, to stay in good form for your next season of training. You wouldn’t want to fall behind your peers. Plus, exercise makes you less susceptible to melancholia._

_If it’s any condolence, it Is cold where I am, but Hungarians are good at fighting it._

_Cosette and Papa send their love._

_Write back soon,_

_Enjolras_

 

21/12/01

_Dear Enjolras,_

_It_ _is_ _a story you must hear, but one you must hear in person, I’m afraid, if only because that promise might give you a reason to actually come to Paris when you say you’re going to, you lying liar who lies._

_As for falling behind my peers, I’m afraid it’s already too late for that on my account, but since I’ve got nothing else to do, I took you up on your suggestion. I’ve joined a boxing club around the corner from the apartment. And I don’t know about that melancholia shit, but y’know what? I like it. Gives me something to do. And I made a new friend, aren’t you proud? We spar together, and talk about muggle books. It’s so refreshing, to talk to a muggle after so long. You’d like him. His name is_

 

“R?”

Grantaire’s pen skidded across the parchment. He looked up. He smiled, folding the letter into his gym bag and shutting it in a locker. “Hey,” he said. “You ready?”

“Yeah,” said Combeferre, though he obviously wasn’t. He removed his glasses, placed them meticulously in their case. “Sorry I’m late. Work. Traffic.” He waved a hand, then started taping his knuckles. “It’s almost like it’s the holidays or something.”

Grantaire grinned. “You know it’s Christmas when everyone’s trying to buy all Paris and leave with it.”

Flexing his fingers, Combeferre asked, “How about you?”

“Me?”

“Leaving for the holidays?”

“Why?” said Grantaire. “Worried no one’s gonna be around to kick your ass?”

Focus on wrapping his other fist, Combeferre breezed, “How would _you_ leaving lower the number of people around who _can_ kick my ass?”

It was times like this that Grantaire began to fear he’d fall in love with this guy, fear being the operative word.

While they warmed up, they talked about Combeferre’s job. He worked at some small muggle bookstore, the kind that had been designed to lure tourists but ended up gaining a cult following of just about everyone. But when he wasn’t doing that (and, sometimes, when he was) he did scientific drawings for academic publications. 

“Really?” said Grantaire, breathing deeply into his tenth sit up. He hated sit ups. They made him overtly aware of his stomach, which was his least favorite thing to be aware of. “So you draw, what, plants and beetles and stuff?”

“Sometimes,” said Combeferre, holding Grantaire’s feet down. “Right now, I’m working on lungs.”

Pause. “Oh. Uh. Person lungs?”

“Yep.”

“Don’t you have to… you know, have a… reference?”

“Yep. I’ll show you my morgue pass sometime. Very macabre.”

“Isn’t that—“ Grantaire faltered and fell on his back. He made a face. He tried again. “Does that not gross you out?”

“Well, I look at it like this.” They traded places on the mat. “Once you’re dead, you’re not really a person anymore. Your body, at least. So, no. It’s just carbon waiting to be dust, atoms that happened to be someone, once.”

Grantaire didn’t know about that. He grimaced. “That’s all well and good,” he said, “So long as no nerd like you with a fancy pen goes around oggling my lungs when I die.”

Combeferre laughed. “I’ll pass your concerns on to the appropriate authorities.”

By the time they got in the ring, Grantaire was already sweating, and Combeferre had the look of a man who would sweat when he damn well pleased. 

“So,” said Combeferre. “Who were you writing to?”

“Uh,” said Grantaire. “Last minute Christmas card.”

_Swing_. Duck. Fists up.

“Who were you _really_ writing to?”

This time, Grantaire swung, and Combeferre rolled along so it glanced off.

“Same person it’s always been,” Grantaire admitted.

“How mysterious!” _Swing_. Duck. _Swing_. Sidestep. “Alright, so it’s private. I understand. Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.”

Grantaire shrugged. “I am, by the way.”

“Hm?”

He took this opportunity to kick Combeferre’s legs out, knock him off balance with a feint and a jab. “Leaving for Christmas. You?”

“Working,” wheezed Combeferre, from his back on the mat. “That wasn’t very sportsmanlike of you.”

“What do you mean?” Grantaire grinned from above, only for a pair of strong arms to tackle his legs and send him sprawling on his ass.

The first time they’d sparred, Grantaire had underestimated Combeferre. He just looked too _nice_ to be able to clock a guy in the face, too bookish and quiet.

Grantaire would never make that mistake again. He rolled out of the way just in time.

They both came away with a few bruises and big smiles. Maybe, Grantaire thought, Enjolras had known what he was talking about with the whole melancholia thing.

Although, Grantaire found it hard to believe anyone who used the word “melancholia.” But that was negated by how easy he found it to believe in Enjolras.

“You know,” said Combeferre, later, as Grantaire walked him to his motorcycle. “Not to bring it up again, but not many people write letters anymore.”

Grantaire shrugged noncommittally. Combeferre’s eyes glinted behind his glasses.

“Must be a story there.”

“It’s long.” 

Combeferre nodded, like he understood, and did it in such a way that Grantaire wasn’t angry, and knew that Combeferre wouldn’t be either if he didn’t explain, and the funny thing was that’s what made Grantaire want to tell.

“An old friend of mine, he travels a lot. So. We write to each other. Have for, um. Eight years, now, I think.”

“Wow,” said Combeferre. “Must be a good friend.”

“He is.”

“I meant you.”

Grantaire’s face felt hot. Combeferre smiled, in that subtle, gentle way of his.

“I’d like to meet him, some time.”

“You’d like him.” _He’d like you._ “He’ll be in town around New Year’s. Maybe then.”

“You’ll be back by then, too?”

“What?”

“You said you were visiting family.”

“Oh. Yeah, yeah, I’ll be back by then. I’ll be back the twenty-sixth.”

“Great!” Combeferre straddled his motorcycle. “Same time next week?”

“I’ll see you then.”

Combeferre put his helmet on, and with a wave he was off. As soon as he was out of sight, Grantaire ducked behind a corner and disapparated.

He was alone at home. Bahorel was out, probably with Jehan, which was… fine, though Grantaire couldn’t understand. He’d brought it up casually to Bahorel—who’d just laughed at him—and to Jehan, who’d said, vaguely, “He’s a very good listener.”

Grantaire had decided not to question further.

He tossed his bag into his room and stumbled to the window, just to look out at the street. He felt tingly, nauseous, but not the regular kind that went along with disapparating. This was the kind of nauseous that happened when he overshared, or said something stupid, or talked to new people at all. Ugh. Obviously Combeferre didn’t really want to know all that shit—he’d just been nice, because Combeferre was always nice, too nice to reject invitations to meet Grantaire’s friends or to tell Grantaire he didn’t really like him—

He closed his eyes. Sunlight still filtered through; he saw only gentle orange. He should shower. But he needed to do something with his hands.

He went into the living room and put on a record—something his mom had always liked. Then he grabbed his easel and his paints, and he brought them into the living room by the big window behind the dining table. Bahorel hated when he painted in the living room, but what the fuck ever, he’d make it up to him later.

Not knowing yet what he would paint, he squirted a blob of red onto a paper plate and stared at the canvas.

POP. _Knock, knock._

Carefully setting his plate and brush on the table, Grantaire went to the door.

“Oh, good, you’re awake!” Joly beamed, helping himself through the door. “Good morning, R! How is my favorite person on earth?”

“I don’t know,” said Grantaire, watching Joly hop into the kitchen and set a basket on the counter. “How is Bossuet?”

Joly clicked his tongue. “Bossuet doesn’t count,” he said. “Our souls match, he’s basically me. But he’s doing well! He’s having brunch with Musichetta. And _I_ —“ He opened the basket. “Am having brunch with you!”

They talked about their days as they set the table (Grantaire’s paints pushed aside to the easel or the floor). Grantaire wanted to know how Joly’s apprenticeship at Petit Gervais’s Wellness Brigade was going (wonderfully, Joly couldn’t be happier learning there and helping people), and Joly wanted to know all about Combeferre (Grantaire tentatively promised to ask him to drinks with them some time), and above all they both wanted to know each others’ plans for Christmas.

“You’ll be going to your Mom’s, then?” Joly asked, handing Grantaire a homemade croissant and a jar of jam from his parents’ garden.

Some time (Grantaire wasn’t sure when), it had become Grantaire’s _Mom’s_ , not Grantaire’s _parents’_. What exactly had happened, he didn’t know, only that his father had left, and his mother had not, and that was fine. Javert’d suggested something about children binding people together more than love, but had said it in the same way the weatherman reads from a teleprompter, pointing at a green screen with nothing but blind faith and an educated guess to tell him he was doing it right.

Grantaire didn’t mind not knowing what happened. It had been a long time since he was close with either of his parents—if he ever had. He’d always suspected he’d been born less out of desire and more out of societal norm. But that was something he’d learned not to think about.

“Yeah, my uncle and I are going for dinner on the twenty-fourth.”

“So you’re free on Christmas day?”

“Depends.”

“On?”

“Whether I want to come or not.”

Joly laughed. “We were going to have Friendmas at my parents’ house that evening—Feuilly’s working that morning, or we’d do it earlier. Mom’s really excited about it.”

“I’ll have to check my schedule.”

Joly looked crestfallen, then like he was trying not to look crestfallen. He picked at his jam. “Oh—I—alright, that’s—“

“Joly,” said Grantaire. “I’m obviously joking. Of course I’ll be there, what the fuck else could I be doing?”

Joly sighed joyfully. “Oh, good, I was worried about what I’d say to Mom. She’d be heartbroken. Wailing in the streets.”

“Eh, she’d be fine. You’d all live on without me.”

“But we wouldn’t live _well_.”

Since he didn’t know what to do with that love, Grantaire stood and went to his easel. 

“Can I paint you?”

“Only if you make me look sexy and mysterious,” said Joly, striking a pose.

Grantaire dabbed a block of red paint onto Joly’s cheek with his thumb, and Joly squawked, and the winter sun came bright through the big window and it was a good day.

 

That evening, Grantaire finished his letter.

 

_—His name is Combeferre. He’s a muggle, like I said. Which makes things a little interesting, what with the whole “upholding the statute of secrecy” and “not compromising the safety of society as we know it” thing. Honestly, I don’t see what the big deal is, but what do I know? I’m just a stupid kid._

_You’ll probably get this on Christmas, so happy Christmas to you and Cosette and M. Fauchelevent. I’ve attached your presents. They’re not much, just some drawings, but I think you’ll like them._

_Write again—unless, I guess, I see you before you can. That’s. Wow._

_Your friend,_

_Grantaire_

 

It was Christmas Eve morning, and Grantaire’s hands were so cold he was having a hard time untangling a strand of lights. He glanced up and down the street. He looked over his shoulder, through the kitchen window—he could see his mother through it, cooking with a few of her friends.

“Just go put up those lights for me, Grantaire,” his mother’d said. “It shouldn’t take too long,” she’d said. More people would be here soon. She’d invited her book club, or something. It was nice—she was excited. Happy. She hadn’t been happy the last time he’d seen her.

Christmas lights were a pain in the ass, though.

Stealthily, Grantaire pulled his wand out of his coat pocket and waved it at the lights. They arranged themselves perfectly about the entryway. He smiled, tucked his wand away. Ah, Magic.

“Grantaire,” said a gruff, unamused voice. He whirled.

His uncle stood on the walkway, bag of last-minute groceries under one arm. Shit. Where the hell had he come from, thin air? (Well, yeah, made sense, actually). 

“Uh, hey, Uncle Javert,” said Grantaire, guiltily.

“You do realize,” said Javert, dryly, “That you are standing in broad daylight in a muggle neighborhood in front of a muggle house full of muggle people.”

“…Yes.”

Javert was doing the thing with his face where it looked primed to shoot laser beams.

“No one _saw_ ,” Grantaire pointed out.

“You can never be sure.” Face still stone, Javert took a step to his nephew and dropped his voice. “Do not let me catch you paling something like that again, Grantaire. Do you understand?”

Grantaire’s mouth fell open. He didn’t know the last time he’d seen Javert his mad. He couldn’t feel his fingers at all know, and wasn’t sure it was all the cold’s fault.

“ _Grantaire_. Answer. Me.”

“Alright, okay, I won’t—“

“This is very serious. I’m highly disappointed in your carelessness. As a fledgeling Auror and, indeed, as a member of our society, it is your prime duty to uphold the Statute of Secrecy at all costs. If that means you have to string a few Christmas lights, then _tough shit_.”

With that, Javert walked past Grantaire, yanked the strand off the house, and went inside, leaving Grantaire stunned with a pile of fairy lights at his feet.

 

“It’s probably just some Minister thing, man,” said Bahorel, loudly, around a mouthful of popcorn, when the topic came up the next evening at Friendmas. 

Joly’s house was bright with laughter, conversation, and floating candles, as the old De Charny quidditch team (plus Joly’s parents, sans Feuilly) celebrated. Christmas, each other, everything.

“I don’t think so,” said Grantaire, tucking his legs more comfortably under himself on their shared couch and drinking eggnog that was mostly Not Eggnog. “He gets worked up about stuff all the time, but not like _that_. He looked like he was about to punch me.”

“Huh. Dunno. But, hey, you could take him down, right? After all that boxing practice…” Bahorel’s eyebrows did an elaborate dance on his forehead. Grantaire snorted, looking away.

“I don’t know about that.”

“Oh, come on, don’t you get all demure—I see those guns—“

“Fuck off, why don’t you.”

“Just sayin’, you could easily bench press Joly.”

From somewhere in the direction of the kitchen, Joly hollered, “No one could bench press me! I’m too dense, like a black hole— _argh!”_

A sound like Bossuet lifting Joly by the waist came from the same direction. Grantaire smiled. 

“When’s Feuilly supposed to get here?” Foriél asked from their corner by Eponine.

“Any minute,” said Bahorel. Suddenly, his smile wasn’t as bright, and his joking, “Stupid punk works himself too hard,” didn’t sound like much of a joke.

A knock at the door, like clockwork, and Joly’s mother flung it open and swept a frazzled, pink-nosed Feuilly into a hug.

They were all met.

Just knowing that made something click into place in Grantaire’s chest, some cog he hadn’t even noticed wasn’t turning. He’d missed this. Simple moments where they were all together for no purpose but each other’s company.

Presents ensued, after Joly’s parents excused themselves (with knowing glances) to go to a friend’s house party. Joly had knitted everyone something, as was his custom. This year, it was socks. Grantaire’s were thick and green and matched last year’s beanie. Grantaire himself had given everyone a drawing of something—different somethings, things he’d seen that reminded him of each of them; a dog, a chess piece, a clouded sky filled with birds.

From Eponine, Grantaire got an animated postcard of a riderless _Tarasque—_ “Because I couldn’t afford the real thing, and if I could, I wouldn’t give it to you”—which he tucked into a pocket in his jacket, close to his heart.

And from Floriél, a slip of paper written with “Good for one (1) free Dragon tattoo.”

By the end of the night, Grantaire couldn’t stop smiling. He didn’t know whether to blame it on the alcohol or the company.

“Both,” Bahorel decided, and they all thought it was so funny they raised their cups and toasted it—“To both!”

It was just like old times.

Better than that, it was just like new times.

Grantaire went to bed so drunk and stupid-happy that he didn’t even notice, when he let Superman in through the guest room window, that there was no letter of response tied to her foot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no spoilers but next chapter is the one we've all been waiting for


	11. New Year's Eve, 2001. (aka, people won't change, only grow older)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter's a big one, guys, so buckle in. in my heart, i think it's the end of "part two" (don't quote me on that), but either way, some great big stuff happens here. catch ya on the flipside!

25/12/01

_Dearest Grantaire_ ,

_Merry Christmas! Thank you so much for your beautiful drawing. I’ve put it in my “GRANTAIRE” scrapbook, with the others, and one day when you’re world renown for your art I’ll sell it for a million galleons and use that to buy you all the comic books ever made._

_How are you, my friend? Enjolras says you’ve been boxing. You must take me when we come to Paris!_

_There are no words for how excited I am to be there, to see everyone and write for Le Voyant and finally give you a great big hug! It’s been far too long, old friend._

_I’m afraid I don’t have time to write as long a letter as I’d like. We’ve been so busy packing. Just one last thing. I found this old photograph in a box. I want you to have it._

_Merry Christmas, and see you soon._

_Love,_

_Cosette_

 

In his hand, Grantaire held an old polaroid, yellowed at the edge, colors faded. It must have been taken by M. Fauchelevent, who’d always been interested in that sort of thing. The figures were still (it was a muggle photograph), but gave off such a strong sense of being Alive that it didn’t matter.

It was a photo of himself and Enjolras. From the looks of it, taken right after that first time Enjolras had cut his hair. Long, white-gold locks lay on the grass at their feet. They were in the old back garden, arms wrapped over each others’ shoulders, smiling so big it was a wonder they hadn’t broken the camera. Enjolras was vibrant, and Grantaire stood basking in that glow. What a strange pair they made. Grantaire, with his missing tooth and pudgy limbs, untamable black curls, too-big ears that never quite grew in right. Enjolras looking radiant, even with scabbed knees, looking like a goddamn angel.

Grantaire had never been so gentle with a photograph in his life, stowing it first in an envelope and then at the bottom of the shoebox in his closet, right next to the lock of gold hair he’d stolen all those years ago.

On impulse, he picked up the hair, held it gently between his thumb and forefinger. It was so soft, and seemed to glimmer, to hum beneath his fingertips.

He wondered if Enjolras’ hair still looked like that. He wondered if it glowed.

“Knock, knock!” 

Grantaire leapt out of his skin, whirling around to see Bahorel in the bedroom doorway.

“What are you doing?” said Bahorel. His voice was at its usual 400 decibels, made even louder by the silence Grantaire had been sitting in for the last hour. “Party’s in thirty minutes.”

_“What?”_

“Yeah, dumbass. What have you been doing in here? This place looks like a niffler got loose.”

“I,” said Grantaire. He looked away. “I don’t know what to wear.”

He expected ridicule, but not in the way he received it. 

“What are you talking about? You have four outfits, and they’re all the same thing with slightly different faded ass color schemes.”

“Fuck off.”

“You know it’s true.”

“At least I don’t look like a limited edition Poptart.”

“This is _couture_ , bitch.” Bahorel popped the collar of his truly nightmarish printed shirt.

“Bless you.”

“Quit stalling and put your clothes on. Don’t want to get there after all the good drinks are gone, do you?”

Feeling less queasy, Grantaire picked up a shirt—a dark blue long sleeve tee—and… stared at it.

“The middle hole is where your head goes,” said Bahorel.

This was their way of comforting one another. Never outright statement of feelings, like with Feuilly or Joly; not lengthy jokes to try and cheery each other up, like with Bossuet; nor blunt truths like with Eponine. He and Bahorel just bullied each other until they forgot about whatever was on their minds

It was nice, in its own way, and usually it worked, but tonight Grantaire sort of wished they had the kind of friendship that made it easy to say, “I’m nervous.”

Because he was. Nervous. he thought he might throw up his heart. He needed… something. Fresh air, a stiff drink, a paintbrush, a—

Bahorel’s heavy hand landed gently on his shoulder. “You think too much.”

Grantaire smiled, sheepish. He was right. Grantaire wished he could do a single thing about it. Wished he could stop thinking about the party, about clothes, about Combeferre meeting everyone for the first time without someone blowing the Statute, about Cosette’s letter, the photograph, about how Enjolras still hadn’t written him back _why hadn’t he written back_ and tonight, he could see him for the first time in nine years—

“What did I _just_ say?”

Grantaire snapped out of it, made a face. “Head goes in the middle hole,” he stated, putting the shirt on.

“There’s a good man,” said Bahorel, satisfied. “Now put on your black jeans, they make your arse look good. And Merlin’s balls, let’s _go_ already!”

“You _look_ like Merlin’s balls.”

“You _wish_ you’d seen Merlin’s balls, curly.”

They both lapsed into giggles, and Grantaire thought, sure. This can’t be so bad, after all. 

 

The anxiety Grantaire felt from the moment he set foot into Joly and Bossuet’s house threatened to boil out through his ears.

He greeted their friends, met a number of new people in the vague way one met new people at parties (safely tucked against the shoulder of an old friend). Outwardly, except for the stiff, shaking hands, Grantaire was as charming as he ever was.

Inwardly, a dragon prowled, puffing smoke into every nook of his body.

A dragon prowled on the outside of his body, now, too, though this one was sleepy, sluggish, still recovering from the needle that had stabbed it to life. The little green Opaleye tattoo was Grantaire’s favorite part of his body, now, which was no surprise given what he had to work with. It made its home on his upper left arm, though Floriél warned it might migrate from time to time. Last he’d checked, it was curled on his shoulder, resting.

At least his tattoo could relax. Grantaire, on the other hand, was wired.

“Drink, R?” Bossuet asked, putting a beer in his hand. He had to yell a little over the noise of the party—a good twenty people had already arrived, and it was only nine-thirty. He leaned in close, conspiratory. “Relax, yeah? It’s all gonna be fine.”

“Sure,” said Grantaire, at a perfectly normal octave, thank you very much. Bossuet grinned, slapped his shoulder, meandered off. Gantaire downed his drink.

Maybe there was something to this drinking business, because by his third, the dragon smoke had all but left him. He’d caught up to Bossuet, and they were investigating a Mystery together.

“I think it’s coming from in here,” Bossuet announced, in front of the hall bathroom. He opened the door, and a cloud of smoke carrying that ugly smell they’d been looking for breezed around them into the hall. It smelled like Bossuet’s botched potion attempts from school.

Bahorel lay in the tub, which was too small for him; Jehan perched on the counter by the sink; a couple other people Grantaire didn’t recognize were there, too. All those people, plus the smoke, made Grantaire claustrophobic just looking in the little bathroom. 

Reactions to their entrance were mixed. Bahorel and Jehan cheered; the two strangers looked pissed off and ignored them. 

“Come to join us?” Bahorel asked, handing Jehan a joint, which they kissed daintily, before exhaling yet more smoke into the room. “The water’s fine!” Bahorel snickered at his own joke, slapping the sides of the tub, which made the other bathroomers to laugh, too.

“Just checking on you,” said Bossuet, cheerily. Grantaire stared at the smoke leaving Jehan’s mouth. He knew, in abstract, that drugs existed, and people did them, including his friends, but his upbringing was such that Grantaire made sure he wasn’t there when it happened, too afraid of getting in trouble.

Of course, now he was an adult (sort of). But there was still the matter of his uncle, who was already angry at him. Of his job, which he didn’t care about. Of his guilt, which was general and all-encompassing no matter what he did.

“What about you, R?” Bahorel asked. Jehan held out the joint. Grantaire felt like Odysseus, tied to the mast at the sirens’ call.

He was saved having to answer by Joly’s voice hollering from the living room. “R! Where are you? Your friend his here!”

A jolt of lightning shot through him and he bolted down the stairs, feet taking off even as the sober part of his brain told him to run the other way, not yet, he wasn’t ready yet… Oh.

Combeferre stood in the doorway to the kitchen with Joly, sharing polite conversation, hands stuffed in the pockets of his fashionable brown coat.

“Thank you for inviting me,” he said, pushing his glasses up his nose.

“Of course! Any friend of R’s is a friend of ours.” Joly giggled at his own pun. His wineglass was almost empty again. He caught sight of Grantaire and gasped in delight. “There you are! Your Combeferre is here. He’s so polite!”

“Would you like me to be impolite?” Combeferre asked, graciously, eyes sparking with a familiar dry humor that released the lightning from Grantaire’s veins even as it created more.

Joly was bursting at the seams. “You must meet everyone we know,” he said, at the same time as, from some unknown room, someone called Joly’s name. Disappointed, but not disheartened, he said, “R! See that it’s done. It was lovely meeting you, Combeferre, absolutely lovely. I’m sure I’ll see you again.” And he breezed away, leaving Combeferre and Grantaire barely in the kitchen.

Combeferre said, “Wow.”

Grantaire scratched the back of his head. He desperately needed a haircut; even with the little ponytail, it was getting hard to ignore. “We’re a swift-moving bunch,” he said. “Sorry.”

“No, no,” said Combeferre. “I like him.”

They went into the kitchen, where Grantaire offered him a drink and got himself another (why was he still shaking so much? And he couldn’t stop looking at the door). 

Combeferre examined his can, brows slightly raised. “I’ve never heard of this brand,” he said.

“Hm?” Grantaire glanced at his own can, and blanched. Something so small as a wizarding brand beer, it hadn’t even crossed his mind. Now, he panicked. “Um. It’s local” he said, drinking a large mouthful. Combeferre looked bemused, but asked no questions.

Someone burst into the kitchen. “Has anyone seen—Grantaire, there you are.” Eponine pushed her way around the couple of people between them. “You’re not in here moping, are you?”

“Why would I do that,” deadpanned Grantaire, taking another long drink. Eponine raised her eyebrows.

“This is Combeferre,” said Grantaire. “My boxing friend.”

Something flitted across Eponine’s face as her eyes snapped to Combeferre’s. “Combeferre?” she repeated. Grantaire could see the whites of her eyes. What the fuck was happening? He looked to Combeferre, hoping for his calm bemusement as a crutch but Combeferre looked like he’d seen a ghost.

“I guess you two know each other,” said Grantaire, stupidly. Combeferre’s eyes darted to him.

“No,” said Combeferre—Grantaire saw Eponine flinch, and Combeferre wince at himself, backtracking. “Well, not recently, but we—we used to. Know each other. I—Eponine, wait—“

Her hair whipped around the corner, and she disappeared into the crowd of the living room. Combeferre seemed at a loss. Grantaire had never seen him at a loss—never seen him anything less than cool, in control, sure of himself. 

“I’m sorry,” said Combeferre, at length, blinking as though waking form a long sleep. “I didn’t mean to… didn’t expect…” He chewed his lip. “Well, it’s a long story—“

“Hey, you don’t have to explain,” said Grantaire, wanting to say _tell me! tell me! tell me!_ “I’ve got long stories, too.”

“That’s right.” Now that Eponine was gone, Combeferre seemed more himself. Still frazzled, but that could be because he’d been taking more frequent sips of beer. “Your friend’s coming tonight, right? The one you write.”

Grantaire coughed. “Let me introduce you to some more people. Hopefully you don’t recognize them.”

A quick scan of the living room showed no Eponine, so Grantaire figured it was safe to enter. What he didn’t consider was the danger of entering a room where all fifteen occupants (most strangers) were crowded around Courfeyrac’s grin, a grin on the brink of saying those famous last words, _“Watch this.”_

Right on time, Feuilly appeared, effectively blocking them full entry.

“Grantaire!” he said, smile all plaster, eyes all apprehension. “Good to see you, mate. This your friend Joly was telling me all about?”

“Er, yeah,” said Grantaire, trying to play along but unsure what game Feuilly was suggesting. “Combeferre, this is Feuilly. Feuilly, Combeferre.” 

They shook hands. “Nice to meet you, Feuilly. You’re the papermaker, aren’t you?”

“Among other things,” said Feuilly, and something _must_ be up if Feuilly wasn’t taking every opportunity to talk about one of his many jobs. “I don’t know about you guys, but I’m thirsty. You thirsty? Let’s go into the kitch—“

WHOOSH!

The crowded living room erupted into raucous shouts and.

Flame.

Blue, green, yellow, purple, bursting into the air and swirling around the party’s heads. Grantaire watched them dance, mesmerized. He’d think it was beautiful, if he wasn’t so horrified. He as afraid to see the look on Combeferre’s face, and, in a more abstract way, afraid of the look on Javert’s face when he was brought to trial for breaking the Statute of Secrecy.

The roar of the flames, despite their lack of heat, sounded to Grantaire exactly like Javert’s voice outside his mother’s house at Christmas.

The flames converged, burst into a shower of many-colored sparks, and disappeared.

Feuilly watched one land on Combeferre’s shoulder with gritted teeth. He and Grantaire shared a look of horror. Grantaire’s fear manifested itself in the only way his drunk mind knew how to process: anger.

He shouldered through this buzzing crowd, leaving Combeferre and Feuilly alone, but bringing himself directly before Courfeyrac. 

Courfeyrac yelled happily. “Gran _taire!_ ” His cheeks were pink, bright eyes glazed. He took Grantaire’s face in his hands and planted two sloppy kisses to it, one for each cheek. “The handsome lover has finally graced me with his presence. _Tell_ me, _mi amor_ , how _are_ you? Did you enjoy the sh—“

Grantaire pried Courfeyrac’s hands off his face. “No,” he said, as quietly as he could. “No, I did _not,_ and neither did my friend over there who is a _muggle—_ “

Realization dawned in Courfeyrac’s eyes and his mouth formed a perfect circle. Then, when Grantaire thought he was going to apologize, Courfeyrac slipped from his grasp saying, “Don’t worry, I’ll sort this out. Who are they?”

“Courfeyrac, no, wait—“ 

He followed Courfeyrac through the crowd, who’d moved on now the excitement was over, but couldn’t catch up with him before he found Combeferre, on account that Combeferre found Courfeyrac, first.

“That was something else,” said Combeferre, adjusting his glasses. “You had me pretty spooked for a second. Feuilly tells me you’re a stage magician? I know you’re not supposed to give away your secrets, but I‘m very interested in what chemicals you used to—“

It was clear to Grantaire that Courfeyrac wasn’t listening to a thing Combeferre said. His eyes slid up and down Combeferre’s body. Grantaire swore he purred.

“I’m afraid you’re right, I couldn’t possibly tell you my secrets—but I’m sorry I frightened you. You’re much too handsome to be frightened, monsieur…?”

“Combeferre,” said Combeferre. He looked like he was about to laugh, which Grantaire assumed was not Courfeyrac’s intended reaction (Feuilly already had his head in his hands). “And your name? Or is that also secret.”

“Oh, it is, but I’ll tell you.” He slipped into Combeferre’s personal space, under the guise of fixing the collar of his shirt for him. “It’s Courfeyrac,” he told him. “Someone like you is certainly worth _one_ secret. Maybe _two_ , if you’d like?” He wet his lips, eyes flicking from Combeferre’s eyes to somewhere lower. 

Grantaire’s ears caught fire. 

Combeferre took Courfeyrac’s shoulders and politely but firmly put him at arms’ length. This time, he _did_ laugh, and it was a rich sound. “I’m flattered,” he said. “But you’re drunk, and too young for me.”

“I’m older than I look,” Courfeyrac pouted, at least not denying the first claim. “I’m nineteen.” Which felt like a laughably young age to be bragging about, until Grantaire remembered he, too, was nineteen.

“I’m twenty-two, and not interested,” Combeferre iterated, with the gentle air of someone who’d turned down a lot of people. (Grantaire felt, for just a second, bitter jealousy mixed with admiration). 

“Suit yourself,” sighed Courfeyrac. “It was nice to meet you, anyway. You’re a friend of R’s?”

“Yes, I am.”

It felt nice, to hear that out loud. Grantaire’s mind liked to trick him otherwise.

“Well, then I’ll see you around.”

“I’m sure you will.”

Courfeyrac sauntered off, Combeferre watching and trying not to laugh. 

“I’m sorry about him,” said Grantaire. “He’s…”

“He’s Courfeyrac,” Feuilly offered, out of his fortress now that the danger was over. 

“I see what you mean,” said Combeferre. “Anyway, not to change the subject, but I really am interested in your papermaking, Feuilly. I work in a bookshop, see, and…”

Grantaire slipped out of the conversation, pleased knowing Combeferre was in good hands even as a wave of nausea hit him. He needed to be alone for a minute. The buzz of overlapping conversation, the smoke, the alcohol, was all starting to get to him. He felt hot, and cold, and perfectly at ease in turns, alternating every time he remembered:

_Enjolras would be here soon._

_Enjolras would be here soon?_

He tried the words out loud, muttered them with his head resting on the wall of an empty hallway, but they didn’t seem any more real.

_“Grantaire.”_

Eponine’s head was poking out of the door to Joly and Bossuet’s room.

“Huh?”

“Is Combeferre with you?”

Grantaire made a show of looking around. “Why, no, I don’t believe he—“

She yanked him by the sleeve “Get in here.”

Grantaire didn’t much care for being alone in Joly and Bossuet’s bedroom without their knowledge, but it was obvious Eponine was upset, and he cared for that less.

“Where did you meet him,” she demanded. The door was shut, Grantaire’s back pinned to it.

“We box together.” Why did he feel like he was admitting a crime?

“How long?”

“I don’t know, a month? I’ve definitely told you about this. Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong. Nothing at all.” He wasn’t sure how she expected him to believe that when she was holding a quarter-empty bottle of whiskey. 

“Eponine…”

“Don’t look at me like that.”

Grantaire adjusted.

“I take it back, don’t look at me at all.”

“Fine, fine. Don’t talk to me, then. At least give me a drink, since you’re the one who dragged me in here.” He’d finished his fourth beer between the living room and the hallway.

He sat on the bed. After a minute, Eponine joined him, and offered the bottle. They didn’t speak for a while, just shared silence. It helped both of them. Easier to clear your head when someone was there to watch it empty, to hold your extra thoughts while you sorted them all into their proper shelves.

“My parents,” said Eponine, suddenly. “Have I ever,” she paused, started over. “I’ve never told you much about them.”

Grantaire shook his head. All he knew was they were muggles, and not to ask more than that.

“They’re.” She shook her head. “Bad. Bad people. And look, I know every fucking teenager thinks their parents are bad people but they’re—they’re _bad_. Like, selling drugs, government fraud, evil foster parents bad.”

“Foster parents?” If only Grantaire’s mind was clear, this seemed like the kind of puzzle he could solve. Knowing that made him frustrated. “Were you—“

“No, no. I wasn’t. Thénardier born and blooded, your girl.” She laughed, bitterly, scrubbing at her eyes. “No,” she repeated. “I wasn’t, but…”

Grantaire blinked through the haze like gauze over his eyes. “Combeferre,” he said. He wasn’t sure what he meant, but Eponine nodded, and it felt like some deep secret was hanging in the air, now. He patted her shoulder, clumsily. 

It was now that the door burst open to admit a pink-faced Joly and a roar of noise from downstairs.

“R,” said Joly—or, more accurately, said Joly’s smile. “There’s someone here who I’m sure you’d like to see very much.”

The next few minutes of Grantaire’s life happened in slow motion. It took him months to stand, years to reach the top of the stairs, where time froze completely except for the sound of Courfeyrac and Jehan pouring their love into glasses and holding them up to a dear old friend.

Someone (Eponine, or Joly, who knew) nudged him int the decades it took to reach the bottom of the stairs, where his hands started to sweat and shake as he began to round the corner into the living room and—

Time came rushing back in the form of a small figure with long, shining hair fanning behind her as she barreled into Grantaire’s chest and threw soft, strong arms around his neck.

Grantaire’s mouth dropped open, even as Cosette’s could say nothing but his name, “Grantaire! Oh, Grantaire, Grantaire, Grantaire,” over and over and Christ, how dare he let himself be drunk for this moment, for receiving Cosette’s joy and giving her his own. As soon as he got his arms to listen to him, he wrapped her as close to his chest as he possibly could.

He felt her warmth beneath his fingertips, and could suddenly do nothing but smile. She was real. She was real!

“Yes, you goof, of course I’m real!” Cosette’s laughter was like church bells—no, better. Like what everyone wanted you to think church bells sounded like. She pulled away only far enough to be able to see his face and beam at it. Grantaire could stare at her all day. He swore she had a halo. 

“I don’t think I could ever be this happy. But come here! Come on!” She took his hand, which was her mistake because Grantaire was determined to never let it go. Was that someone laughing at him? People were definitely staring. Grantaire had never cared less about anything in his life. As far as he was concerned, all that mattered was what Cosette wanted, what she was saying to him.

“Come on, you have to see Enjolras—“

The illusion shattered, and Grantaire’s heels dug into the floor halfway into the living room. Enjolras. If Cosette was here, was _real_ , that meant.

That meant.

He would have liked to say the room went silent, but it was a party on New Year’s Eve, so of course it didn’t. But despite the lack of true silence, there was an undercurrent of it, as Grantaire held his breath and his friends (gathered conveniently in one place, so not to miss anything) watched like it was a Broadway show and Cosette squeezed his hand in encouragement and the world swam in Grantaire’s eyes and—

Enjolras stepped forward.

No bullet to the neck, hammer to the fingernails, or rusty guillotine to the ankles could dream to hurt as much as falling in love with an old friend. It can’t happen all at once, only in increments over the course of year. It grew through your ribcage like a vine, making itself comfortable. The vine is plain, hard to notice because it isn’t getting in the way of anything, what harm could it do?

And one day, a rose blooms right over your heart, and it doesn’t quite kill you but you almost wish it would.

Out of nowhere, blinding love, as though you are struck by lightning. 

Anyway.

Enjolras stepped forward, breaking away from Courfeyrac and Jehan who flanked him like cherubim flanking an archangel in a Renaissance painting. He wore a red scarf, which he was in the process of undoing until he saw Grantaire, when his hand fell to the pocket of his long black coat. His gray eyes shone with an earnestness that burned. 

His hair nearly reached his shoulders. It was the only thing about him Grantaire had always remembered perfectly. The details of his face, hands, eyes had faded from memory and changed, besides, over the years, but his hair was something Grantaire could never forget. The kind of gold that would make Rumpelstiltskin weep, dwarves sing. 

Enjolras stepped forward, holding Grantaire’s gaze and a letter.

“I thought I’d give Superman a break, and deliver this one myself,” he said, with all the air of someone who’d practiced a sentence for years.

Grantaire did what anyone with a blood alcohol content of more-than-God-intended who had also recently been stuck by lightning/been waiting to be stuck by lightning for nine years would do.

He threw up in the middle of his best friends’ living room.

He wished this was the part that he blacked out and didn’t remember anything the next morning, but no, this was the part where the whole room winced, and Enjolras ( _Enjolras_ ) took a step back and gave a confused look to Courfeyrac, and Joly and Eponine took Grantaire by the arms, rubbing his shoulders, leading him to the kitchen, sitting him on a stool. 

Someone put a glass of water in front of him, and he drank it all in one go. Impossibly, the letter was in his hand. He fumbled with it until Eponine plucked it from his hand and tucked it into his pocket.

“Poor R.” Jehan swept into the room, suddenly in front of him smoothing back his hair. “All this excitement is too much for you, mm? Don’t you worry, we will keep you safe.” They kissed his forehead. It would be nice, if Grantaire wasn’t boiling in his own humiliation.

Most of his friends were in the kitchen, but Grantaire was hyperaware of Enjolras hovering uncertainly in the doorway. The one time he got the courage to look at him, he was frowning, in deep, hushed conversation with Courfeyrac.

They met eyes Enjolras worried his lip, narrows his eyes, went back to his conversation.

“He hates me,” Grantaire meant to think, but said out loud.

“That’s not true,” said Cosette—Oh, God. That was _her_ hand at the small of his back, _her_ on the stool beside his. She must think he was so pathetic, so disgusting.

“No one could ever hate you, R,” Joly insisted at his other side, but that couldn’t be true because Grantaire hated himself pretty well right now. He put his head in his hands and groaned, trying to shut it all out and instead hearing part of a conversation across the room.

_“—need to stop freaking out.”_

_“—not how I planned this at all, I don’t—“_

_“Go over there and talk to him right now.”_

_“What if he throws up again?”_

That settled it. Grantaire had ruined everything forever. He would have to become a hermit, change his name to Merlin, sell drugs for money—

“R, you don’t even know how to _buy_ drugs,” Eponine pointed out. Truly, his rock.

“Oh, no. He’s doing the thing where he says everything out loud,” said Joly.

“I’m sorry,” said Grantaire. 

“Why don’t you drink more water?” Cosette suggested. 

Grantaire did, then said, “I’m so glad you’re here. I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you, too.”

Grantaire looked around. “Where’s Combeferre?”

“He was getting paper towels with Feuilly.”

“Why don’t they just use magic—oh, ‘Ferre’s a… Oh, God, Combeferre is cleaning up my puke. How could I do this to him?”

“There, there,” Jehan ran another hand though his hair. “Don’t worry about him, R. He looks at dead people all the time, I’m sure this doesn’t bother him.”

“I don’t understand how that’s supposed to make me worry _less_ —“ Fuck. He was hyperventilating. That was it. He was going to throw up and die in one night, the two most horrible things you could ever do. 

He stood, abruptly. “I need some air,” he announced, and marched toward the front door. Several people tried to follow, but they were stopped because Courfeyrac—did something, Grantaire wasn’t paying attention anymore.

Outside, it was cold. His jacket was in the house somewhere. But that was okay. He stood on the front steps and took deep, gasping breaths until his lungs were too cold to hyperventilate anymore and he could breathe evenly again.

He felt, suddenly, like crying. Tried to, even, but it didn’t work, so instead he sat down. Inside, people started chanting. It was midnight, he realized, only when fireworks started going off all over the neighborhood. Another year.

The front door opened a few minutes later, and he didn’t have to turn around to know it was Enjolras. His back stiffened. Enjolras sat on the steps, too—not beside him, but on the same step—very deliberately, movements stunted.

“I—“ he said, after a second. “Hope you’re alright.”

“Nothing hurt but my ego,” Grantaire muttered. The joke felt awkward out loud. Everything felt awkward out loud, like he shouldn’t be allowed to talk to Enjolras except in writing. He couldn’t look at him. Couldn’t bring himself to.

There was an awkward silence.

“I don’t know what to say,” they said, at the same time. 

Grantaire grimaced. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. “I wish I hadn’t thrown up.” he said. 

“Me, too,” said Enjolras. 

Grantaire would never get used to hearing his voice. It was low and even, but lilting, purposeful. Armies could be led by voices like his. Beyond that, though, Grantaire thought it was amazing that Enjolras had a voice at all beyond ink and parchment.

“I met Combeferre,” Enjolras tried. 

Grantaire looked at him, got distracted looking at him, forgot to respond. Enjolras chewed his lip, like he thought he’d done something wrong. Grantaire wanted to yell and shake him and tell him he could never do anything wrong.

“You were right,” Enjolras tried again. “I do like him. I like him a lot.” 

Grantaire said something that was supposed to be, “I like him too,” but was more of a squawk. 

They stared at each other. They looked away. They didn’t say anything. They kept not saying anything.

It shouldn’t be like this. It should be easy, and nice. There were fireworks, sure, but not for them.

“I,” said Enjolras, after a long time. He stood. “I’m going inside.”

“Okay,” said Grantaire.

“Feel. Better?” Enjolras cleared his throat, like he’d meant to say something else, but forgot how. Then he left.

Grantaire put his head in his hands and listened to things explode in the sky.

 

Across the city, a doorbell rang at half-past midnight, and the Minister of Magic looked up from reading an old book alone in his living room to stare at the door.

Stare was not the right word. Really, it was a scowl. Who called so late at night, on a holiday? Someone important must have died. That, or the world was ending. Either way, it was nothing Javert could do anything about at this hour.

Or.

Grantaire?

Javert closed his book and stood, finding a robe to fasten over his nightgown and sliding his feet into a respectable pair of slippers. He hadn’t seen Grantaire since… well, since their Talk, weeks ago. The boy needed space. Javert understood—he did—but it was still… regrettable, that their encounters had made themselves scarce, given that…

Oh, for Merlin’s sake. Javert just missed him.

He went to the door—cautious, of course, one hand on his wand, already schooling his features into an expression that would not give Grantaire—er, the Potential Enemy, rather, of course—any sign of weakness. 

He opened the door.

He saw who it was.

He screwed his face into an indescribable shape, and closed the door.

_Attempted_ to close the door. The scoundrel had shoved his foot in the frame. 

“Please,” said Jean Valjean. “I know you think otherwise, but we can’t avoid each other forever.”

Javert said, through gritted teeth, “Get out of my home.”

“You expect me to let it all rest,” said Valjean, “to pretend none of it happened, when I’ve raised her children for sixteen years?” 

Javert did his best to smash his foot in the door. Valjean didn’t so much as wince—went on, dogged.

“When that owl has sat in your living rom for just as long?”

Javert’s eyes widened— _You knew?_ and Valjean’s narrowed, not unkindly, _Of course I knew._

“At this moment,” said Valjean, “Our children are meeting again for the first time in nine years. Don’t you think we should do the same?”

The thing was bastard almost had him, with his large, earnest eyes and his foot in the door and his gentle, placating tone. He’d grown more gray hairs since their last meeting. They both had.

But people didn’t change. They just grew older.

“If I ever see your face here again,” said Javert, “I will kill you. Now leave.”

Valjean had the gall to look sad, the nerve to take his foot out of the door and tip his head. “Fine,” he said, softly. “Fine. I won’t fight you. Not again. I couldn’t bear it.”

_“Go.”_

“I’m going, I’m going,” Valjean assured, raising his hands to heaven. “But you can’t hide forever. Even from yourself—“

Javert shut the door in his face. Locked it. Twice. Cast an obstruction charm on it, for good measure. Went back into the living room, muttering to himself. 

“ _‘Couldn’t bear it,’_ what’s that supposed to mean? ‘ _Even from yourself,’ ‘our children,’_ the _fucking_ nerve—don’t look at me like that.”

Fantine, in her cage, fixed him with as bitter a look as an owl could provide.

“I’m just doing the right thing,” he told her. He went back to his book, hoping that the right thing still meant the best thing, something he’d never doubted before. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks as always to everyone for sticking around, and to my new readers, and especially especially to every single one of you there in the comments. i'm almost as bad at responding to them as i am at updating this story, but trust me when i say nothing gives me more will to keep doing this than all of your kind words.
> 
> you can find me on tumblr @bacchusofficial, where i post mostly cute pics and stupid goofs and, occasionally, talk about this story. and hey, if you're into art, check out my instagram @alchemicaldragon!
> 
> as for when to expect the next update, my heart always wants to say sooner rather than later, but the only definitive answer is "it will happen." in the mean time, for real, hit me up on the ol' tumblr ask box! i'd love 2 talk to y'all. that's all, folks!

**Author's Note:**

> title is brought to you by my main man Joseph Campbell: "The world is a match for us. We are a match for the world."


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